Act 9: Biohazard 5 From Beneath the Umbrella
by noctorro
Summary: Chris Redfield wouldn't know of the Uroboros Project, let alone stop it if the BSAA hadn't been tipped in the first place. Who would leak photos of Jill Valentine and why? A story chronicling the events leading up to the events of Resident Evil 5.
1. Prologue

It was a dark and stormy night when Kenny walked through the musky hallways of the ancient European castle. The only source of light came from the occasional flash of lightning outside, briefly illuminating the ornate detail of the walls; too much to notice in the split second they were visible.

Not that he actually bothered looking. Beneath the long black trench coat, his body shook with anticipation. Though it was left unsaid when Wesker ordered him to accompany him on this trip, Kenny knew in the pit of his stomach that something was going to hit the fan fast and hard. Hesitation slowed his pace and Wesker had, on more than one occasion, looked over his shoulder at him, ordering Kenny with a silent glare to hurry up.

Wesker walked briskly, tall body leaning slightly forward, arms swinging like pendulums at his sides propelling him onward. In the darkness, the sounds of his footsteps were Kenny's only means of knowing where to go, and the occasional silhouette when the lightning was kind enough to provide some visibility, however brief.

The castle was huge, an ancient brick and mortar maze of twisting corridors that reminded Kenny instantly of that adventure four years ago in Spain, in a castle a little larger than this one, but otherwise not all too different. It even had the same musty smell of aged incense; the smell that reminded him of the moment he surrendered himself to Umbrella's will.

Umbrella's fall did nothing to slow the movement of illegal bio-weapons in the black market. Instead, it had created a power vacuum with hoards of smaller companies trying to establish themselves in the field by sabotaging each others' attempts, progressing on their own independent research. It was a dangerous field to be in – let alone as an intelligence spy. At least that's the term that best fit his job description – run here, steal that document, run there take these photos. What Wesker needed them for, Kenny had no idea nor did he question. It had taken a few years for Wesker to destroy any resistance he put up but Kenny was fully subservient now. He held out at first, hoping that Wesker would eventually fall with Umbrella, but the man was far more elusive and resilient than the company he worked for. Neither the STARS, nor the BSAA, not even specialized government agencies were able to find him, let alone take him down. Only a handful of people knew where Wesker was, and even then, only at different points in time. At this point in time, Kenny knew and it was in some castle in Europe on a rocky cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

Kenny came to a sudden halt when his face met with Wesker's palm. He'd stopped in front of a pair of massive double doors spanning the height of the hallway. The exquisite detail carved into the aged wood belittled even the hallway they had come from.

"Wait," Wesker ordered.

"Yes, sir."

"Nobody interferes."

Lightning flashed again, revealing Wesker's back, the ends of his trench-coat flapping at his heels as he walked through the double doors. Kenny didn't look to see what was behind them. Like a dog ordered to sit by his master, Kenny looked back towards the direction from which they came, down the darkened hallways and waited obediently.

After Wesker's footsteps had disappeared, Kenny finally had a moment to himself to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. And he realized then that his castle was fucking spooky. The slightest would travel down to the other end of hallway, amplifying as it went along. And that was all Kenny heard – at these volumes it was difficult telling what was loud and close, or muted and coming from far away. He fought the instinct to just up and jet out of here, a battle that was regularly waged in his head. And his discipline always won. Anything was better than facing Wesker's wrath. And he knew through and through that it was that fear of Wesker that kept Kenny doing what he was doing for him. He wanted desperately to break that chain but could see no reason to do so other than to end this torture. Without him, Kenny would have no job, no money, no food. He would have nothing. The question was, would having nothing be better than living in constant fear and danger? The fact that he hadn't outwardly defied Wesker but yet entertained these thoughts of doing so told him that he had yet to make up his mind.

Kenny regretted joining Wesker's cause but didn't blame himself for it. Life on the run from Umbrella had long since taken a toll on his then teenage body and he could keep going no longer. It was in a European castle much like this one where he hesitantly pledged his allegiance to Wesker. And in that moment, his plans for the future died. Kenny however still held on to the hope that his friends would come to his rescue; friends who shared more of a history with Wesker than he did, friends who wanted Wesker dead far more than he did.

He suddenly felt something though clasp over his mouth with a strong grip. Kenny was pulled off his feet and slammed onto the ground, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

"Fucker," he swore in his head and instinctively reached for a dagger sheathed in his boot. Kenny slashed upwards blindly with his short blade, only to meet with another blade coming downwards upon his. It was dark and he couldn't make out the features of his attacker, though the silhouette told him it was someone big and burly – and that likely meant a speed advantage for Kenny.

Kenny leapt back, putting a few extra inches between him and the assailant, crouched down and kicked out low and hard. His shin came into contact with his opponent's leg but failed to knock him off his feet. In this darkness, he had missed the kneecap which would've guaranteed a victory. Despite the missed target, the opponent yelped in pain as Kenny's booted shin came into contact with his calf.

As he got back to his feet however, Kenny a point of cold metal press against the back of his skull. The attacker was in full view which meant he had a partner.

"One more move and I'll blow your fucking head off." It was the voice of a woman – a gentle voice, though she spoke sternly.

"Who are you," Kenny demanded, raising his arms to surrender. "What business do you have at Spencer Castle?"

"The same business we had at Spencer Mansion," the man replied, stepping out of the shadows and into a pool of light cast a single candle adorned with dried drops of melted wax. The light helped carve out the features of the man's now-familiar face. "The question is," he continued, "what are YOU doing here, Kenny?"

Kenny's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, trying to find an answer. "Officer Redfield," he stammered, "Y … you came."

Chris Redfield nodded to his partner, who still had the gun aimed at Kenny's head. "It's alright, Jill," he said. "It's just Kenny."

"OUR Kenny?" the woman asked. She put a hand on his shoulder and turned him around to get a good look at his face.

"You've grown a little bit bigger, Champ," Chris said.

"Yeah, so did you," Kenny replied, knocking on Chris's arm like he would on a door.

"W … what are you doing here?" Jill exclaimed, "why here? You're not …"

She trailed off but Kenny knew exactly how she was going to finish her sentence. "I'm with Wesker," he admitted.

"What …" Now it was Jill's turn to be at a loss for words. "That means Wesker's here." She exchanged worried glances with Chris.

"I'm sorry, I had no choice."

"There's always a choice," Chris said sternly. "And you chose-"

"What? You want me to run from Wesker? Sorry Chris, but I tried that and he found me eventually. I can't spend my whole life running. I can't anymore … I'm a smoker."

"So what does this mean then," Jill asked, "do we finish our fight, right here and now? Cause you're outnumbered, Kenny. And what's worse, you'd be turning your back on your friends … unless you consider Wesker you friend now, which I refuse to believe."

Kenny's knees turned to jelly upon realizing that Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine were in fact here, right now, talking to him. He leaned against the wall and sank into a sitting position. The opportunity to escape from Wesker's clutches that he'd hoped for had presented itself. The tricky part was convincing his two ex-coworkers that he was, truly, on their side.

"Well?" Chris asked, in a stereotypical macho pose, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at Kenny from where he stood. "What's it gonna be, kiddo? Are you with us?"

Kenny smirked. "Those annoying nicknames have GOT to stop sometime, Chris." He raised a shaky finger and pointed down the hallway in the same direction Wesker headed. "Keep going that way," he said, "past those double-doors. You'll reach a flight of stairs. There's another set of double-doors at the top and through those, you'll find Wesker."

"Let's get him," Chris growled without missing a beat, and began down the hall with Jill stepping into stride behind him.

"Kenny?" she asked when she noticed he remained seated on the ground making no effort to follow them. He shook his head.

"Wesker," Kenny whispered, "he's not human anymore. I can't defy him. I … I'm so sorry." He reached into his buckle and took out a handgun, ejecting a full clip. He tossed the clip to Jill, who snatched it out of the air. "Use that."

"Kenny …"

"Don't worry about it, little buddy," Chris reassured him, "This ends tonight."

Only one of them would walk back out those doors tonight.


	2. Chapter 1: SOS

**Six Months Later**

Amidst the drunken laughter of patrons, through a cloud of lingering second hand cigarette smoke, nobody heard the door to the seedy bar open, or saw the figure walking in. As the old floorboards creaked along beneath the newcomer's weight, heads turned to look over their shoulders - a group of truckers enjoying a refreshing beer after hours on the road – to inspect. He didn't even glance at them as he continued along his destination – an isolated table in a neglected corner of the bar towards the back, placed underneath a dying light bulb dimming from as it approached the end of its life. At the table, a raven-haired woman sat with her arms crossed over a modest chest partly covered by the top of her red halter-top. She was the only woman in the bar, and the only person who made no effort to look at him.

But she must have known he was approaching for the floorboards were so old and worn, the weight of a feather would have made their creaks sound like screams of bloody murder.

"Late," the woman said.

The newcomer gave a smirk that could hardly be seen in the poor lighting. "And you're on time. Go figure."

"They didn't ID you, Kenny?" The comment struck a nerve with the newcomer; not because she called by the name he'd gone by as a child, or that she was making blow to his pride by comparing him with a prepubescent child, but because he _knew_ she was trying to get under his skin. But Kenny wasn't in any mood to give her the response she wanted.

He wrinkled his nose in all the smoke thickening the air in the bar. "Smells like bitch."

"Just having a little fun," Ada said, ruby lips widening into a thin smile.

Kenny snorted and plopped himself in the seat opposite her. The unnatural curve of the seat and the solidity of the wood caught him by surprise. It was no wonder this table was left in such a dark, abandoned corner of the bar. What was a wonder, however, was how Ada could sit there and look perfectly comfortable with barely a wrinkle in her dress or a hair out of place, let alone in a bar full of the gruffest, grungiest truckers Kenny had ever seen.

"Yeah, well I'm not interested in participating in your games. Can we just get this over with?" He looked uneasily over his shoulder at the other patrons, some of who were still eyeing him.

"Umbrella Agent afraid of a little bar-fight?" Ada said in such a passive aggressive tone, that what she said and how she said it offended him on two different levels.

"No I'm just running on a tight schedule," he replied. "Can't keep your mom waiting."

"Hmph," Ada grunted, "ever the brat you've always been."

She tosed a ring-bound book about an inch thick on the table. It made a loud slam as it came into contact with the wood. Kenny sat opposite her in front of the book and took it in his hands. The table was suddenly bathed in the shadow of a waitress and he instinctively placed the book on his lap and turned it over, cover down.

"Can I get some drinks for you guys?" she asked in scratchy smoker's voice. Given the atmosphere in this bar, it was possible that she wasn't a smoker. She certainly didn't look like one.

"Martini for me, please," Ada said.

"A pint of Bud," Kenny added.

"Sure thing. And if I could just see some ID, please." Kenny rolled his eyes and produced a driver's license from his pocket while Ada looked down, containing a snicker.

"Thank you," the waitress said, handing the card back to Kenny. "I'll be right back with your drinks."

When she was at a safe distance, Kenny took the book back out and took note of its cover – a simple hexagonal shape made up of inward facing triangles, in an alternating red and white pattern. The logo was placed in the center of the page with the numbers 145.25.2009 written beneath it in delicate italics.

"Some intelligence gathered about the site of your next mission," Ada explained as Kenny flipped through the book. With her arm still folded, she leaned back against her seat and looked out the window at the rainy night beyond. A few street lamps could be seen, shedding light upon the silhouettes of giant diesel trucks sitting dark, cold and miserable while their drivers sauced themselves up in this stuffy bar.

"This reads more like a tourist handbook," he commented, eyeing a page carefully.

"Familiarize yourself with the geography, dangerous local wildlife to watch out for, what to eat if you run out of rations, that kind of thing."

Kenny stopped skimming through the pages and looked at her. "Have you taken a look at this already?" he asked, pointing at the book.

"No, I don't need to."

"Mighty cocksure, aren't you?" Kenny said getting slightly irritated with her passive tone and her arrogance. She hadn't even made eye contact with him once since he arrived.

Ada shrugged. "That's because I'm not going. You are."

There was a brief moment of silence, time Kenny took to understand what he'd just heard. "They're sending me in alone?"

"Not necessarily. I've got something else on my plate. I'm just here to deliver that to you." She nodded at the book, then added with a touch of sarcasm, "And to catch up on old times, of course."

"This report gives no information on what I'm supposed to accomplish there," Kenny said, ignoring her attempts to further infuriate him. Though he'd never admit it, he was impressed by the sarcastic comment. The unspoken hatred between him and Ada was strong and never had to be established verbally. He had to be silent suddenly as the waitress approach with a martini glass filled with a clear fluid, and a glass of beer balancing on a tray she held in one hand. She set the drinks on the table quickly, yet gently enough that the liquid the glasses contained did not spill over their rims. Kenny nodded to her in thanks, but Ada was content ignoring her. The waitress walked briskly away after that, leaving the two to their discussion.

"You are not to engage in combat this time," Ada explained. "This isn't the kind of mission where you go in and shoot everything in sight. In fact, if everything goes well, not a single bullet will have to be fired."

Kenny looked at the pictures printed in the book. They were high resolution, almost artistic shots depicting an exotic landscape he had only ever seen in movies – a simple, humble village with some foreign influences, as its one-storey buildings were constructed of plaster, wood and concrete. Evening sunlight accented their blocky shapes and brought out the old, crumbling and stained textures of their surfaces. Trees stood tall and proud, overlooking the establishment with their ancient forms in a kind of stoic presence.

"What's the priority status?" Kenny asked, wondering why he'd be sent to such a peaceful looking place.

Ada smirked. "A," she replied simply.

"You've gotta be joking me," Kenny said, shaking his head in disbelief at the serene atmosphere the photographs suggested. "What could be here that's so important to us?"

"It's Africa; the cradle of humanity … and its ailments."

"Something tells me I'm not going on some anthropological expedition."

"It also happens to be the hub of black market activities – at least where illegal biohazard material is concerned. Also, there's something you need to know about this mission," Ada added as an afterthought.

"There's always something, isn't there?"

"We expect that the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance will be present, but we're not sure in what form."

"The B.S.A.A. is a joke," Kenny scoffed. "If they were a serious organization, we would've been shut away a long time ago."

"That's not the point. You know what that means."

Ada said this as Kenny was taking in another mouthful of beer. He frowned, partly at the information, partly from the taste. "That there's something Umbrella needs to rebuild itself? Like all the other missions I've been sent on?" He felt gas building up in his stomach and thumped his chest with a closed fist to release it.

"You're not putting a lot of thought into this, are you?"

Kenny belched. "What? Does this have something to do with Chris Redfield?"

Ada nodded, gracefully ignoring the gas. "Wesker believes Redfield is going to be involved with this one. He's been aching for revenge ever since the mansion incident. Almost had his retribution, too – in the Antarctic base. You were there."

"I was bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound," Kenny replied. "I don't remember much else." He took another swig of the beer and the glass was half empty by now.

"And Redfield saved your life." Ada said nothing for a moment, leaving Kenny to contemplate what this meant. He stared intensely at the glass, turning it between his fingertips. "You owe him."

"What are you trying to get at?" he suddenly asked sharply.

Ada lifted an eyebrow. "The same thing you're denying to yourself."

"I'm not denying anything to myself. I just wish you wouldn't go digging into my personal files."

"Redfield's presence is going to test your loyalty to us."

"It won't be an issue," Kenny promised, although he quickly cast his gaze downward as he said this. That was enough to tell her he wasn't being sincere.

"We'll see soon enough," Ada said. She downed her martini in one graceful gulp and set her glass back on the table. "Wesker will transmit the mission details to you soon. Good luck." She got up from her seat and walked out of the bar, leaving the bill for Kenny to pay.

"Bitch," Kenny mumbled as he watched her leave.


	3. Chapter 2: Renewed Hope

One Week Later  
Underground Laboratory  
Nigeria, Africa

Kenny navigated the dark metallic corridors of what he knew to be one of Tricell Incorporated's many laboratories. But with well-worn computers and machinery, dirty floors upon which his boots thumped and the condensation dripping down the rusted walls, it felt more like a post-apocalyptic chamber. The neutral gray leather suitcase held in his right hand thumped against his thigh as he walked. Wesker emphasized treating its contents with care but Kenny knew it was safe within those cushioned airtight viles. Besides, he needed to vent his frustration for still being under Wesker's control.

"Chris, you said it would be over," Kenny said quietly to himself. "But it isn't – not in the least." The one thing in the world that Kenny promised he would never do was to feel sorry for himself despite his circumstances. He wouldn't have made that promise had he foreseen the situation he was in now. His only hope of escaping Wesker's influence had failed and Jill Valentine was as good as dead. It was as if fate itself had determined that if Kenny were to shake Wesker lose, he would have to do it himself. No more shortcuts, no more relying on others to get him out of a tight spot. He had survived on his own before – yes, he had survived Raccoon City but by no means by himself - now, he'd have to fight on his own.

He stopped in front of what appeared to be a random door that looked no different than the others lining this hallway. It wasn't even numbered. Kenny raised his security badge to the scanner embedded in the wall and the door unlocked with a soft click and slid open to reveal a lavish room that looked out of place when compared to the dark, dank, depressing surroundings of the rest of the lab. Wesker was seated on a fine leather couch one would find in a therapist's clinic flanked by potted exotic palm bushes. How they were kept alive in these conditions, Kenny didn't know. The safest guess was some form of virus. Wesker sat leaning forward, heard turned slightly talking to an elegant woman seated beside him – a woman of Arabic or East African descent clad in a white satin figure hugging dress and giant chunks of gold jewelry hanging from her neck, wrists and ear lobes. They looked to be in intense discussion until Kenny walked in, after which they looked at him momentary with a rude glance.

"I see you haven't taught your lapdog how to knock," she said, words soaked in a thick European accent.

"Better than being his bitch," Kenny said without missing a beat. Wesker shot him a warning glare and Kenny said no more. He placed the suitcase onto a fine oak table and took a seat beside his boss on the couch. Kenny pressed both his index fingers to the sides of the suitcase that clicked unlock with built-in state of the art fingerprint recognition technology which never failed to impress him. Kenny opened the suitcase and extracted a syringe labeled PG67-A/W, filled with what looked like water. Wesker extended his right arm, sleeve rolled to the elbow, onto Kenny's knee. Taking Wesker's arm, he jabbed the needle of the syringe into the crook of his elbow and injected the contents. Kenny didn't have to search for the vein anymore. The injection site stood red and scabbed from Wesker's otherwise pale skin.

He smirked, as if to tell Kenny that this was the only way he could hope to cause bodily harm to him. Kenny was otherwise powerless to do anything to Wesker.

"Uroboros is nearing the pre-production phase," Excella reported as Kenny was delivering the injection. "We expect to have it ready for a test subject soon."

"Elaborate," Wesker said through clenched teeth as he endured the pain of the injection.

"In a matter of weeks," she said.

"That's impossible," Kenny scoffed. "The T-Virus took years to develop and even then its undesired side effects far outweighed its potential as a bio-weapon."

"The T-Virus was never complete," Wesker added. "It was an overambitious project funded by a man with more money than seconds left of his life. He thought the more money he threw at the project, the faster it would come to bear its fruit."

"And yet Spencer never considered the kind of help he was enlisting," Excella continued. "Nothing but self-serving scientists with little regard whether he lived or died. William Birkin. Alexia Ashford. Morpheus Duvall. But I am not Wesker and Tricell is not Umbrella."

"So what you're saying," Kenny challenged, "is that everyone employed by your company has nothing but its research – your immortality - in their hearts and minds. Word's got it that even Shadowlaw has taken note of Uroboro's progress, let alone the same self-serving bastards your company no doubt employs. Who's to say nobody will …"

"We've taken precautionary measures," Excella insisted rather defensively. But Kenny's point didn't go unnoticed by Wesker who had now tilted his head in her general direction. Kenny was willing to bet that behind those dark glasses, his reptilian gaze was fixed strongly on her. She seemed to feel it too as Kenny couldn't help but grin as he saw Excella swallow nervously.

She then predictably decided to work her feminine charm on Wesker, gently caressing his shoulder. "Do you not trust me to run Tricell?" she asked in a soft, cooing voice. "I have my scientists wrapped around my finger. They will do as I ask of them."

"It's not I who doesn't trust you, my dear," Wesker said, though words obviously dripped with lies. "Kenny does raise an interesting point."

"And what does Kenny know of Tricell after serving under you and only you for all these years? He knows nothing, Albert. I am transparent to your eyes only."

"Give me a fucking break," Kenny said, pulling the syringe from Wesker's arm.

"Or put it this way," Excella said, narrowing her eyes at Kenny, "Tricell has the funding, the talent and the infrastructure to accomplish your goals. Without us, there is no Uroboros."

"I love how you omitted 'loyalty'."

"One would almost think you're testing the waters," Excella said slyly, "see how far you can go."

"Believe me, lady, I've tried." Kenny's admission earned an enthused smirk from Wesker.

"You will outlive your usefulness one day," Excella continued, "but Tricell will outlast you."

"Sounds too good to be true," Kenny spat. "I'm getting tired of pharmaceutical companies."

"That's enough, Kenny," Wesker said sternly. "I want you to check up on Jill Valentine."

"Jill?" Kenny asked, caught off guard by the strange request. "I've performed status checks on all the hostages last week already. You should have the report by now …"

"Excella and I have much to discuss," Wesker elaborated, "in private. In the meantime Jill needs to be prepared."

"For what?"

"You heard it. Uroboros will be needing a test subject soon."

**XXXXX**

From behind a wall of thick bullet-proof glass, beautiful woman slept peacefully. Blonde strands of hair floated around her face suspended in a strange clear liquid, all of it contained in a capsule that might as well have been a coffin for its subject. Kenny pressed his fingertips to the glass and wiped away some of the condensation to get a better look at her face.

It was still Jill, all right. And her familiar face, eyes closed looking so peacefully asleep brought sorrow to Kenny's heart. He'd fought tooth and nail to keep her alive, used every excuse in the book against Wesker as to why it would be in his best interest to not kill her. But just a few months later, he had run out of excuses. Chris did not come for his partner and Kenny was now being ordered to prepare Jill for her death.

"I'm sorry, Officer Valentine," he said softly, tears welling up in his eyes. "I did the best I could. I really did. Please forgive me."

He reached over to the apparatus attached to Jill's stasis pod and downloaded her vital signs. If the Uroboros Virus was to be tested on a human subject, it had to be in the healthiest possible state to see how it would perform against the immune system.

"And just what do you think you're doing here?" a high pitched voice demanded, snapping him from his thoughts. Kenny didn't need to turn around to figure out who it was.

"Orders, Ricardo," he said. "Wesker's selected the first test subject for the Uroboros Project."

"Funny, I don't recall hearing this. But what I do recall hearing is you talking to the subject." Kenny turned around to face Ricardo Irving, a shorter man around his height with large eyes and a mop of blonde hair unsuccessfully covering his severely receding hairline. Despite the Western European last name, he spoke with a thick Brooklyn accent that when combined with his high pitched voice, annoyed Kenny to no end. "Mind explaining what that was all about?"

"The only words I have for you are 'don't interfere'," Kenny replied sharply. "I have work to do." He turned back around to face the apparatus displaying Jill's vital signs. That was when he noticed something wasn't right. Ricardo must have sensed it too as Kenny felt his presence directly behind him.

"How is this possible?" he gasped.

"There is traces of … something foreign in her body," Kenny continued, "and it's manifesting slowly."

"Magnify," Irving said, and Kenny did so. The infection took the shape of a ball with strange protrusions all over its surface. "This … this can't be right." Ricardo headed for a nearby computer terminal and began frantically typing on the keyboard.

"Looks like a virus," Kenny said. "I don't understand. These stasis chambers are supposed to seal their subject from exposure to the outside world. Nothing could have gotten in or we would have been alerted."

Irving held up a finger and spoke. "This means the virus would have already been inside the chamber, or inside the subject when we sealed it."

Kenny shook his head. "Still not possible. Before Jill was put in here, she received medical treatment for the injuries sustained from her fall back at Spencer's castle. Nobody detected anything then. Maybe the instruments used to treat her weren't properly sterilized?"

"This isn't some ordinary virus, Kenny," Irving said gravely. "Come take a look at this."

Kenny walked over to the computer terminal that displayed the same magnified viral cell as he'd seen on Jill's stasis pod. That wasn't so much what concerned him so much as the brief description below the digital image."

"The T-Virus …"

Irving rolled his eyes. "You really aren't a researcher. It's not just the T-Virus. In fact, that's not so much the abnormality as how her body is responding to it. Jill's body is producing what can only be an anti-virus."

Kenny's heart jumped into his throat. "There's no known cure for the T-Virus."

"Until now," Irving corrected. And then Kenny understood how his chance to save Jill could be renewed.


	4. Chapter 3: Contact

**XXXXX**

**Underground Laboratoy  
Nigeria, Africa**

"Antibodies …" Kenny said quietly to himself as he thudded at a fast pace towards Wesker's office. Jill's bodies were producing antibodies to the T-Virus. Since the Uroboros virus was a glorified version of the T-Virus, it meant whatever results that could come from testing against her would be invalid. At least that's what Kenny hoped. The big man in the sky was watching over him, giving him a second chance at buying Jill some more time.

Irving seemed disturbed but yet pleased at the same time upon the discovery. Kenny wasn't sure what plans he had, let alone how the antibodies fit into them, but they were of little concern to him. What mattered now was contacting Chris Redfield. Kenny had tried to keep Wesker from killing Jill the first time and waited patiently for Chris to show up but he never did. The likeliest scenario was that he believed Jill to be dead – which didn't surprise Kenny. That fall was high enough to kill anyone. But typically Wesker, he managed to saved Jill somehow.

From his post in the dark hallway at Spencer Castle, Kenny remembered hearing wood splintering, glass shattering, grunts of effort, gunshots, and the dull thumps of flesh against stone. His friends were in Spencer's den facing off with Wesker, their nemesis while he stood idly by. Every fiber of his being told him to get in there and help, but one fact held him back. If they lost, Wesker would kill him. Not even the Las Plagas sample within Kenny's body, nor the Shadow Technology embedded in him since he was a child would save him from Wesker's wrath. And then there would be nobody to protect Kenny's family. He couldn't afford to have Wesker find out where his true allegiance lay – although he had an inkling that he already knew.

It wasn't until Kenny heard the loudest shattering sound of his life, followed a second later by Chris screaming Jill's name at the top of his lungs. Heart leaping into Kenny's throat, he bolted from the spot, booted feet thumping against the stone floor like a rapid fire machine gun. He leapt up the stairs taking them two at a time, ignoring the searing fatigue in his lungs and threw his body into the heavy oak door that stood between him and the fight. Kenny's body collided with the wood, rattling the brain in his head, but the door burst open.

Kenny's body spilled into the room as he flailed his skinny arms and stumbled to regain his footing. He had expected war; Jill and Chris wrestling Wesker to the ground or maybe holding his handgun to his head, the pair of them having finally outsmarted their nemesis, overcoming his super human speed. Chris and Jill could do anything when teamed up together – that's what he had come to believe anyway, when he first met them in Raccoon City all those years ago. They were members of S.T.A.R.S. for goodness sakes! There was a child in Kenny who still worshipped the S.T.A.R.S. And that's why the sight of Chris kneeling on the ground in front of a shattered full length window knocked the words out of him and filled him with sorrow. Shock settled in, rooted him to the spot. Spencer's old, crumpled broken body lay a few feet away in a pool of its own blood with a giant hole punctured through his chest – no doubt Wesker's doing.

When Kenny regained control of his legs, he walked slowly over to Chris, who had not moved from his stop. Stepping over Spencer's body, he slowed as he neared Chris who was still on his knees, forehead pressed to the floor, wailing in emotional agony like some condemned banshee. His voice was coarse, glass shards had cut the skin on his arms and face but he seemed oblivious to this as he continued moaning and sobbing. Kenny was used to seeing Chris as a strong, stoic figure whose presence guaranteed security. Seeing him like this – it was like looking at a whole other person with Chris's likeness. It was … surreal.

"Jiiilll!!" The sobbing softened, turned into a whimper, and got louder again.

"Chris …" Kenny said shakily when he could find his voice, but trailed off. What could he have said? He was too busy figuring out how to handle his own shock. Interactions with Chris had been more personal, casual but Kenny had no idea of knowing whether Wesker was no longer a threat and was therefore in survival mode. He spoke in such a cold, distant tone with Chris that he'd surprised even himself. "Where's Wesker?" Chris continued sobbing but Kenny thought he saw him move his arm towards the window, pointing weakly to the chilly air outside. He tried asking again. "Chris … where is Wesker?"

"Jill," he replied through more sobbing, "she … pushed Wesker … and he …"

Kenny gulped down a dry lump of horror forming in his throat and craned his neck to look out the window, spotting the ocean waves crashing thunderously on jagged rocks hundreds of feet below. He half expected to see Jill and Wesker's shattered bodies, and was filled with a mix of relief and concern when he saw nothing. He took a seat beside Chris and put a hand on his shoulder. The kind gesture proved futile as Chris collapsed into him, leaving Kenny struggling to hold his impossibly heavy mass upright. "Jill's not dead, Kenny. She can't die, not like this."

"She's not dead until we find her body," he replied. "She could still be alive. Maybe Wesker's body cushioned her fall and …" Kenny realized how ridiculous he sounded. From this height, logic dictated that it didn't matter how they came into contact with those rocks – they would have died. And the reason he couldn't see their bodies was because those waves had probably carried them out far out to sea by now.

"I'm sorry," Kenny said giving into his worst fears despite his resolve to believe the best scenario. It was just too unlikely. "I … I should have been there with you guys. I should have helped. Then maybe Jill wouldn't have …"

"Shut up, Kenny just SHUT IT!" Chris bellowed suddenly with such unexpected force, Kenny released him and got back onto his feet and took a step backwards. Chris rose as well, muscular form towering over Kenny. "This isn't anybody's fucking fault other than Wesker. You dare take a shred of blame and I swear to God …" Chris bit his lower lip and squeezed his eyes shut, a fresh river of tears spilling from between his eyelids. He took a moment to gather his nerves, and Kenny tensed, ready to react if Chris decided to attack him in a fit of heightened emotion. With Wesker gone, it didn't surprise Kenny if he decided to take his rage out on him, especially given Kenny's association to Wesker. But instead of acting on the outburst, Chris slumped his shoulders in defeat, letting out a heavy sigh. He crouched down and picked up his knife from the ground and lumbered slowly towards the doorway.

Where was he going? Then again, what were they doing just standing here? What were they supposed to do now that Jill and Wesker were dead? "Chris, hold on," Kenny pleaded.

He stopped in his tracks and shot Kenny a sad, tired glance over a broad shoulder.

"My boss is dead," he continued. He scratched his scalp, wondering how he was going to communicate to Chris the confusion he was feeling – the sense of loss, the absence of his purpose now. "I … I don't know where to go."

"If you come with me, you will be arrested and locked up for the rest of your life," Chris said with a hoarse voice. He raised his hand and pretty much shooed Kenny away. "Just go, kiddo. Rebuild your life."

"But …" Chris didn't stop this time, and continued his way out of the room, leaving Kenny alone with the shriveled corpse of Old Man Spencer on the stone cold floor, dead eyes gazing up lifelessly at the elegant ceiling.

That was the last time Kenny had seen Chris. It hadn't even been a year ago, yet felt like a completely different lifetime. Fast forward six months, and here he stood with a stack of paper under his arm rushing towards Wesker's office, not having made an inch of progress towards a better life since that fateful day. He hadn't taken Chris's advice. He didn't rebuild his life like he had wanted to. Kenny was still serving under Wesker, who was far, far from dead. But neither was Jill at least.

Wesker entered Kenny's field of vision by rounding a turn in the corridor just a few feet ahead. Kenny was caught with such surprise, he nearly tripped over his own feet. "I've been looking for you," Wesker said. "What took you so long?"

"Preparing Jill for testing, like you said," Kenny replied.

"You should have been done awhile ago."

"I would've been but something came up instead. We found something – me and Irving. I know you're anxious to get testing underway but I think we should hold off for a little while longer."

Wesker folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow with amusement. "And I know you're digging deep into your bag of excuses to try and preserve Jill. But you've run out."

"Except for one," Kenny said without missing a beat, handing Wesker a small stack of paper. "I think you might be interested in this." He took the notes and flipped through them. Behind the dark glasses, it was impossible to tell whether he was merely skimming the report, or reading it carefully. But Kenny got his answer when Wesker's mouth went from a disinterested frown to an enlightened smirk.

"A part of me wants to believe you just made this up," he said.

"And I went straight into Irving's personal logs and wrote up this fake report," Kenny replied sarcastically. "The data was downloaded from the archives from Jill's preservation pod."

"It's impossible," Wesker tried to deny it, never looking up from the papers he flipped through in his hands. "Jill escaped Raccoon City unscathed. Yet in order for her body to produce antibodies for the T-Virus, she would have to be infected in the first place." There was a slight uneasiness about his tone; ever so subtle, but Kenny had been working for Wesker long enough to detect the slight change of how he spoke.

"Suppose she was," he offered as a suggestion.

"Then she would have been zombified," Wesker said, slicking a stray strand of hair back into place. "Either she has a natural resistance to it – which is near impossible as there are no records of anyone possessing a natural immunity to the virus - or she has been taking an antivirus regularly all these years to keep from zombifying."

"Well I do know that a suppressant exists," Kenny said. Wesker met his gaze with an inquisitive expression. And he elaborated further. "I ran into a group of survivors in Raccoon who'd managed to stay alive for a week. Aside from gathering ammunition and fighting off the T's creations, they managed to stay alive long enough to suppress the virus with these antivirus pills."

Wesker lifted an eyebrow curiously. "An antivirus suppresses viruses. It doesn't eradicate them."

"Daylight," Kenny said simply earning him a curious look from his boss.

"Daylight?" Wesker scoffed. "You're not suggesting Jill managed to get her hands on the only cure to the T-virus. The research was kept under wraps even to Umbrella's own employees. It's impossible!"

"It's possible. Research into Daylight development was restricted to only two locations in Raccoon City; Raccoon General Hospital and the University. In light of the outbreak, the hospital could have put the antivirus and the Daylight cure to use."

"You're saying a cure to the T-Virus was being administered as the outbreak was in full swing." Wesker said. "An interesting theory considering distribution was never authorized."

"As if that would be an issue when there's a virus inside your body threatening to turn you into one of the undead. It's the likeliest explanation and I've seen proof of it myself. The group of eight civilians who escaped with the T-Virus eradicated from their bodies, the fact that they survived so long without zombifying. Jill's developed anti-bodies, Wesker. And that means she had to have been infected in the first place and is now immune. And that invalidates whatever test plans you've got in store for her."

However Wesker didn't seem too affected by the news brought to him. Kenny wasn't sure what else was on his mind until he said, "So there are at least eight people out there potentially having developed antibodies to the T-Virus as well. Interesting."

"This makes Jill a less than ideal test subject against Uroboros," Kenny said, changing the subject back. "The T-Virus and Uroboros are derived from the Progenitor Virus. The antibodies of the T variant could serve as some form of protection from Uroboros as well."

Wesker smirked. "You really are a piece of work, Kenny." Kenny had to hold back a proud smile. He knew Wesker would eventually start seeing things his way. He had successfully bought Jill some more time. And this time he wasn't going to waste his chance. He was going to contact Chris somehow …

**XXXXX**

**Town of Kijuju  
Nigeria, Africa**

It was late at night when Kenny left the laboratory and entered the small town of Kijuju. Influence from the developed world was rampant here and it was because of this that he had chosen to come. He would have been lucky if any of the other nearer villages were on the map. He sat alone at a table at one of the dingy local bars surrounded by poorly assembled shacks, old buildings peeling with paint that had long since lost its glamour. Heat of the day now radiated off the baked earth warming up the night. His T-shirt stuck to his body, glued to his skin with sweat. His glass of beer that had been served to him barely ten minutes ago was now disgustingly warm.

Kenny drummed his fingers on the bar, waiting for the rest of the party to arrive, when he saw a familiar face making her way among the other patrons. She was a blonde girl, long straight hair. If there was one thing he loved about the heat, it was how it was forcing her to dress – short strapped one piece scarlet red dress. He met her crystal blue eyes and she smiled in recognition.

"Been awhile since I've seen you here, Kenny," the girl said, joining him at the table. She hadn't asked if the seat was taken, which led him to believe that she was already slightly intoxicated – which didn't surprise him given her small frame.

"Enjoying yourself as usual, huh, Allyson?" he said.

She gave a limp shrug. "Nothing much else to do here when the boyfriend is out of town eighteen hours a day working at the oil refinery. He comes home, half his body stained brown and wonders why I don't wanna have sex with him." Allyson sweetly tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear and gave Kenny a dimpled smile. He unconsciously took a sip of his beer as he noticed her movements, studied her round face, large blue eyes, standing out like a sore thumb from the locals. Then again, his yellowish complexion and Asiatic features didn't exactly help him blend in either. Allyson and Kenny had noticed each other months ago when she first came to town with her boyfriend, both of them often coming to the bar for a late night beer while she vented her frustrations about her love life to him. It was almost as if she was crying for help, pleading with him to come and rescue her from the tar pit that was her relationship. But having a pseudo-wife of his own, Kenny wasn't sure if it would be the right thing to do. So he just kept his relationship with her platonic – not an easy thing to do with a girl as attractive as that.

"I'm sure he cleans," Kenny offered, a pathetic attempt at some consolation.

"Not hard enough," she scoffed. "So tell me, how's the internship at Tricell going?"

Right, Kenny never told her the truth about what he was actually doing at the pharmaceutical company's African branch. And he would have to keep it that way if he didn't want Allyson turning him – and his entire company and potentially causing a huge legal suit – into the authorities. And besides, the guise of a college student getting work experience overseas was an exotic cover story.

"Nothing exciting to report," he lied, "just running errands pretty much. Get this from here, that from there, and an iced latte."

"That's all? If you wanted to be an office bitch you could've just worked somewhere back home." Allyson was using vulgarities. Definitely drunk.

"Yeah but how many people get to say they've been an office bitch in Africa?" Kenny suggested. "It's not all that bad. Sometimes I get sent on field studies and take notes for the researchers. Gather geological data and what not."

"And then my boyfriend goes in and drills the oil from the land you help survey. Nice partnership you've got going on."

Before Kenny could roll his eyes at the incredibly lame but believable cover story he'd fed her, he took another sip of his beer and nodded with his mouth full. "Yes, it's a good team effort," he said after gulping, "except that I've never actually met him face to face."

"Well I told you about my idea to start some kind of English tutorial service. I just had my first trial student earlier in the week. Pronunciation was awful but he knew his grammar better than me. The guy knows his clauses to his prepositions."

"His … what?"

"Exactly," Allyson said, laughing. He caught of whiff of alcohol. "Anyway Kenny, it was nice seeing you. I've really got to get back home. I got some errands tomorrow morning."

"Well have a good night then, Allyson," Kenny said, tipping his baseball cap in her direction. "Drink lots of water before going to bed. You'll pee like a dog in a field of fire hydrants but at least you won't be hung over. And in this heat, to boot."

"Haha, thanks for the tip. I'll be seeing you around."

On her way out of the bar, Allyson brushed by a stranger – to her, anyway. Through a scraggly mop of dark brown hair, Cerulean blue eyes scanned the room and settled on Kenny. He came slowly over to the table to greet his friend and the pair shook hands after taking a brief moment to size each other up.

"Good to see you, old friend," the newcomer said, gripping Kenny's hand with more strength than he'd anticipated.

"It's been a long time, Mr. Marquez," Kenny replied with mock formality, trying not to wince from his friend's grip.

"Don't give me that 'Mr. Marquez' bullshit," he chuckled. "Do I look like my dad to you?"

"Well …" Kenny had to hold back a grin.

"You don't have to answer every question thrown your way."

"You're looking well, Dorian," Kenny said. "You owe me an update." And that was just putting it lightly. His black hair that Kenny was used to seeing cropped closely to his head now hung in wavy locks. Dark stubble was spread sparsely across his angled jaw, sharp nose pointed in accusation to whoever he was talking to. Fitting for a journalist, really. The last they had seen each other was as teenagers and now, both in their mid-twenties, had completed their run through puberty and barely recognized each other. Kenny wondered if he looked as different to Dorian as Dorian did to him.

"Well I'm here doing some research. I've been looking into tensions between a few native groups here. People are worried the local situation is going to turn into another cultural genocide like in Darfur, except the crucial differences between the Nigerians and the Kijuju locals isn't so much territory than it is about what's going on in that territory."

Kenny blinked, not expecting this from his old friend. "And what are you doing this for again?"

"Looking for a story," Dorian replied, "and this one's pretty big. As if genocide and AIDS isn't threatening to tear this region apart already, now we've got rumors of illegal scientific research going on." Kenny's heart froze. He wasn't sure if he'd heard properly, but if he did, that means someone out there was aware of Tricell's activities and they were in danger of being exposed. "Dude, are you okay?"

"…Yeah," he lied, "I'm just wondering why you didn't stick to, you know, mainstream American journalism? Probably much safer."

"Because the world is such a big place, bro," Dorian said. "And number two, this could eventually lead back to us in the States. Think about it – illegal scientific research banned pretty much worldwide is going on _here_; in one of the most rural and poverty stricken areas in the most troubled continent on our planet. Where do you think the funding comes from?"

Kenny shrugged. "It could come from anywhere. All it takes is a guy with too much money and too much time."

"Yeah, well multi-billionaires are in short supply, and there's only one major scientific research group in town – Tricell."

"We're a pharmaceutical company!" Kenny said defensively.

"What do you mean by 'we', Kenny?" Dorian asked quietly. "I thought you were here on a business and marketing internship.

"I … am," he stammered nervously, silently cursing himself for letting it slip. "I'm doing it with Tricell."

"You know what's going on?" Dorian asked it in the form of a question but his tone was dripping with accusation.

"Look," Kenny said, putting all his cards on the table, "you're right. Something's going on and I only have an inkling as to what it is. You want your story? Well here you go. But you better be ready to swallow this pill."

Kenny produced a photograph from his pocket and laid it on the table right side up facing Dorian. "I need you to get information to this man." Dorian picked up the photograph and studied it carefully, brows creasing, like he was trying to recognize the face staring back at him. "His name is Christopher Redfield. He's an agent for the Biohazard Security Assessment Alliance."

"The B.S.A.A.?" Dorian said, scratching his chin. "Those guys are hardcore. They're a worldwide special-forces organization. What's going on, Kenny?"

"Something huge, potentially," he replied.

Dorian smirked. "Huge, huh? Knowing the kind of bullshit we've both been through before, this must be really serious. What's the worst case scenario?"

"Another Raccoon City, probably a lot worse. The situation is – a few months ago the B.S.A.A. lost one of their most experienced agents on a field mission. Her name was Jill Valentine. I don't know what her official status is, but it wouldn't surprise me if they've pronounced her dead. I need you to let Chris know that she is in fact alive and he needs to come for her."

Dorian studied the picture for a moment, not one to miss a single detail in words or images, his eyes carefully tracing Chris Redfield's features. "This is a pretty tight lipped organization," Dorian said. "There's no telling if I'd even get past the receptionist, let alone to their agents, and to a _specific_ agent further more. Can't I just drop the information off? Call a hotline or something?"

Kenny shook his head. "Like you said, they're hard to get a hold of, if that's even possible at all. But I have faith in your abilities to sneak around behind people's backs for a story. And I need you to use those skills for me."

"But does the information have to go specifically to this Redfield guy? I'm sure they would need some kind of evidence to back up the information I'd be passing along to them."

"I'm working on getting some proof. In the meantime, I have none, which is why it's imperative you get to Chris first. If you tell him the information's coming from me, he'll believe it and he'll come. Winning over the rest of the organization comes later, when I actually have solid evidence."

"How do you know this Chris guy will believe you?"

"We've known each other for over ten years. He knows and trusts me. And knowing Chris, he'll have trouble believing Jill is dead unless her body is found. The two of them have been partners since their days before the B.S.A.A. and she means a lot to him."

"Well how are you so sure she's alive?"

"Because I've been monitoring her recovery since the day she was brought in. Dorian, listen to me." The sense of urgency in Kenny's voice rose. "Jill's time is running out and we need someone to come to her rescue. Chris is the first person who will believe this and the most likely to come. If you can, contact the B.S.A.A.'s North American headquarters. That's where you will find Chris Redfield."

"All the way home? Damn, Kenny I thought I could've just gone down to their African branch. Plus there's this one hottie I saw working there the other day, Sheva Alomar…"

"Dorian I'm not kidding around. I know this is a lot to ask but will you do this for me?"

"You don't even have to ask," he replied honestly, "This is gonna be huge! Plus, you make it hard to say no, what with the whole possibility of another Raccoon City thing."

"Thanks, buddy," Kenny said, breathing a huge sigh of relief. "I owe you one."


	5. Chapter 4: Genocide

**XXXXX**

**B.S.A.A. North American Headquarters  
New York, United States**

The sleek pair of automatic three inch metal framed glass doors slid open, spilling the warm air from inside out into the crisp winter morning. A large form wrapped snugly in a trench coat stepped through and nodded silently in greeting to the mousy secretary so petite behind the huge desk that her hair bum could just be seen above the counter. The steady click of high heels tapping against fine marble could be heard all across the lobby kept so warm, that even potted palms could survive here during the coldest of winters. The man headed towards the elevator at the far end of the lobby, following a path cleared for him as visitors and employees alike noticed him coming and nodded curtly, occasionally adding, "Good morning, Mr. Redfield." He smiled warmly back at them but never slowed down to start a conversation. Ten years ago, he could see himself wanting to talk to anyone friendly enough to greet him. Back then, he would've suggested going for a beer at J's Bar after work because there was nothing like a chilled brew after a hard day of paperwork and the occasional rescue mission. But back then was over a decade ago when Chris Redfield was an accomplished, talented but still young and carefree man.

The elevator reached the top floor with a resounding ding and its doors slid open to reveal a finely decorated set of double doors with an inset to the left reading in his name in gold letters. "Christopher Redfield, Chief Officer." It had taken millions of dollars from government loans and investors to set up the Biohazard Security Assessment Alliance, build the infrastructure, hire military personnel straight out of the army – which wasn't difficult since most, if not all were returning from multiple tours of the Middle East and were willing to take anything to avoid getting redrafted. It had taken money that Chris never thought he'd ever see, let alone decide how to spend. It wasn't until mid-1999 that things had taken a turn to his favor in his fight against Umbrella Incorporated, in the form of the front page of a statewide distributed newspaper in copperplate gothic font "Umbrella Incorporated Responsible for Raccoon's Fate." And the next thing he knew, Chris was walking into his new office, fine Persian rug lying on the slate floor as the room's centerpiece. And seated in one of the chairs lining the walls, beneath a small palm was a young man with a pointed nose and dark hair hanging in wavy locks around his face.

"I wasn't expecting visitors," Chris said as the man stood up to greet him.

"Dorian Marquez, Mr. Redfield," the man replied, reaching out a hand. "And I must say it is a pleasure to finally meet you face to face." Chris noticed the burgundy dress shirt and khakis, both with fine wrinkles as if he had slept in those clothes and had only just woken up. The bags under his eyes added to the image. "You have no idea what trouble I went through just to get here, for only five or ten minutes of your time."

"Climbing twelve stories of stairs must have taken a toll indeed, Mr. Marquez," Chris said, hinting at the fact that the elevators required a keycard to access the upper floors. Scanners were still being installed in the stairwells, which meant that was the only way his visitor would have gotten up here. Chris kept his guard up, but hid it well. He would be able to engage Dorian if the situation called for it, given the difference in size, which gave him no reason for him to raise his fists yet. "May I ask what drove you to go to such lengths for a few minutes with me?"

"It's about the email I asked to be forwarded to you," Dorian said, rubbing his hands together. "I sent it a few weeks back and I've yet to receive a reply." Chris flipped through his recent memories of ever receiving an email from the young man standing before him. But every morning he turned on his computer to at least 20-30 sitting in his inbox. He would usually delete them, not having much time to go through every email. Chances were Dorian's message was among them, if it had gotten through the mousy secretary downstairs in the first place.

"Oh yes," he lied, pretending to remember, "but remind me what it was about again?"

Dorian gave a subtle smirk having caught the fib. "Jill Valentine."

Chris raised a hand to stop him from speaking any further. "Before you continue," he said softly, "be aware that mentioning that name in my office, after apparently having stalked me no less, is not the best idea."

"Sorry," Dorian said, shrugging, "I had just assumed you'd remember the email, especially if it was about her. And I'm not playing games either, Mr. Redfield. I wouldn't have gone through all this trouble just to yank on your chain."

"You came all the way here," Chris obliged, "now what is it you have to say about Jill?"

"I think she's alive." Chris didn't say anything for a moment, definitely not the reaction Dorian had imagined he'd have. He studied Chris's expression, trying to read his thoughts, but got only an opaque concentrated frown for his efforts. It could have meant anything.

"I'm sorry," Chris said finally, "who were you again?"

"I'm an investigative journalist, sir. Well … I'm trying to get a story for my big break, anyway."

Chris snorted in response. "I don't think you understood my question, so let me rephrase that. Why should I believe your claim? I've had my share of run-ins with reporters and to be frank, you guys will say anything to get the kind of reaction you want. But lying to me about Jill …"

"I'm not lying."

"Get out," Chris hissed.

"Mr. Redfield, if you could just listen to …"

"Don't make me repeat myself!" Chris jabbed his finger in the direction of the door.

"It's a message from Kenneth Feng!" Dorian cried. He fully expected Chris to physically grab him and throw him out of the office, but to Dorian's surprise, he remained standing in his place, expression seemingly frozen in time.

"You spoke to Kenny?" Chris shook his head. "How far will you guys go to get a story to fabricate?"

"I don't think you understand, sir," Dorian pressed, "Kenny is a close friend. I'm also here doing him a favor because he was the one who sent me here to talk to you."

Hearing this, Chris seemed to let his guard down a little, relaxing his shoulders. He walked over to a fine wood liquor cabinet and pulled out a pair of crystal drinking glasses, filling each one about a quarter way full of Crown Royal whiskey and handed Dorian one.

"I'm sorry," Chris said. "You've touched on a sensitive topic. But if it's true what you said, about Kenny sending you, then I'm somewhat confident that you know what you're talking about." He downed the entire shot glass with one glass. "Drink up, and tell me everything he had to say."

Dorian fought to hide his grin. Chris Redfield was giving him a chance to talk, and talk he would. If he was going to give Dorian any information, Dorian would have to somehow earn his trust. "I can tell you more than that," he said.

"Then start at the beginning." Chris motioned for Dorian to grab a seat and took his place behind his work desk.

"I was researching illegal activity in shanty towns along the Nigeria/Kijuju border and getting nowhere fast. The death threats stopped me from digging my nose further into the whole mess, where the true story is. That's when Kenny called me up; asked me to do him a favor by passing a message onto you."

"And this message had to do with Jill still being alive?" Chris asked. "But how would he know?"

"That's what I asked him, and he was a bit uneasy answering my questions. Eventually I got the information out of him. Kenny told me you urged him to return to a life of normality, of anonymity." Chris nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact with Dorian. "Kenny claims that Jill is alive and that carries some weight because he's working at Tricell."

It wasn't the answer Chris was expecting and he breathed a sigh of relief. He'd suspected, based on Dorian's tone that Kenny had once again chosen the wrong path. But he was grateful to hear that he was working at a random pharmaceutical firm where his experience at Umbrella would no doubt serve him well. "I don't see the connection," he admitted. "Jill is dead because of Wesker. There's no room in that puzzle for some pharmaceutical company to fit."

"Umbrella was some 'pharmaceutical company', wasn't it?" Dorian offered.

"You're suggesting Tricell is the new Umbrella?" Chris said sarcastically.

Dorian sighed, taking into account how he must have sounded. "Look, I know it's a bold claim but rumors have it that …"

"Those would be rumors." Chris was quick to cut him off. "What we need are facts. I can't do anything about the situation at Tricell – assuming there is one – without solid evidence!"

"But aren't you even going to look into it? Send someone out there to check out the situation?" Desperation in Dorian's voice was becoming apparent.

"Sorry, there's no story for you here. Just because Kenny says Jill is alive doesn't make it true and he's probably only saying that because he wants me over there. Which leaves one question – why?" Chris leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, deep in thought.

"As I was saying earlier," Dorian continued, "rumors are rampant in Kijuju about Tricell performing some sinister experiments on people. It's said that they've created some kind of virus, or maybe even a parasite that killed off the women from local tribes and enslaved the men."

"And Kenny works for the accused?" Chris asked.

"He claims it's a business and marketing internship but he was uncomfortable giving me even that much," Dorian spoke, his tone dripping with suspicion.

"Why hasn't he left all this bullshit behind?" Chris asked rhetorically.

"I think he likes to believe he's still fighting the good fight," Dorian responded regardless. "But if he's allowing the inhumane experiments on the Kijuju natives to continue, he's in the wrong."

Chris gave Dorian a questioning look from behind clasped hands. "I thought you said you were Kenny's friend and yet you talk about him like this."

"Just because I'm his friend doesn't mean I stand by every choice he makes," Dorian clarified, speaking defensively. "And I definitely don't stand by this one, Mr. Redfield. Kenny thought he was doing me a favor – giving me a lead for a story – by sending me to you. And he is, but I hope to find out more than Kenny's could fathom and hopefully, that'll get him out of the bullshit I think he's in right now."

The comment peaked Chris's interest as he responded by taking his clasped hands away from his face. He propped his elbows up on his desk and leaned closer to Dorian. "Just what kind of dealings is he involved with specifically?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," Dorian replied honestly. "But I do know it's with Tricell and that can't be a good thing."

"Hmph." Chris leaned back in his seat, rubbing his chin in deep thought. With creased brows, eyes fixed downward on nothing in particular, he said, "You mentioned something about experiments on the local African tribes?"

"Again, rumors," Dorian replied. "There's so much that I want to dig into but I can't do it alone without getting my ass killed."

"So you want us to be your vehicle then."

"That's … one way of putting it. But it's not just for my own story. I have a friend involved in this business too and if it'll help him get out of it, then I want to do something. Please, Mr. Redfield – from what I've learned, Kenny is your friend too. And if you trust him as I do, then you know that his claims about Jill being alive must be true. He wouldn't lie about something so sensitive."

Chris nodded subtly. "I'll look into it. But I promise you nothing."

"That's all I came here hoping to accomplish," Dorian admitted. "Thank you for the whiskey." He downed the remaining liquid in one gulp and placed it on the table with a dull thud. "I'll see myself out."

Dorian had reached to door to the office and was about to make his exit when Chris called out, "Do me a favor?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Tell Kenny …" Chris paused to consider his words. "Tell him not to get too comfortable where he's at."

"I don't quite understand."

"Because sooner or later I will tear him away from Umbrella, or Tricell, or whatever damn pharmaceutical company he chooses to align himself with, if I have to drag him away by the hair."

Dorian had trouble hiding a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Redfield."

**XXXXX**

Tricell Underground Laboratory  
Kijuju, Africa

A sharp stabbing pain in Kenny's abdomen jolted him from sleep. Placing a hand on the scar just below the sternum, he rolled over in bed, face wincing in pain. Even in the darkness, he began to see coloured spots. It was impossible to tell whether his eyes were open or closed, not that it mattered at the intensity of his suffering. It felt like someone had plunged a hot knife into his abdomen and was now twisting it, trying to tear out … the Las Plagas Queen! The coloured spots invading his vision – were they her thoughts? Was she crying in pain? Kenny couldn't know for sure but a part of him knew that the Plagas Queen, implanted inside his body during his time spent in Spain, was crying out for attention and she was not happy in the least.

Gathering his willpower, Kenny forced her down – and to his surprise, it worked, somewhat, convincing him further that the two of them shared some kind of mental connection. While the pain had subsided, however temporary, Kenny pulled himself out of bed and stumbled in the general direction of the door with one hand reaching out into the darkness, the other on his abdomen. The shuffling of his footsteps brought a momentary flashback to Raccoon City. The undead creatures made the same sound as they slowly approaching looking for their next meal. Kenny then made the physical effort to make careful, well placed steps to remind him of his humanity, that he DID survive Raccoon City.

His plan had been to head towards the medic's office and get some kind of drug to shut the Plagas queen up, but his path was suddenly blocked off by Wesker's large figure, his silhouette glowing under the incandescent lighting from the hallway.

"Going somewhere?" he inquired with his icy, reptilian voice.

"Just to the wash …" an explosion of pain racked Kenny's body, cutting him off mid-sentence. He grasped his abdomen and fell, but Wesker reached out and caught him under the armpit with one arm, hoisting him back up.

"Sorry," Kenny gasped when he caught his breath. "I think it's the Plagas Queen. She's … not happy, I don't think."

"Hmph," Wesker snorted. "I didn't think the amendments we made to the existing Plagas would affect her so much. The effect is near instant."

"W…what did you do?" Kenny stuttered in disbelief. "What are the Plagas even doing here in the first place? You've invested millions of dollars and months of work studying the Progenitor – not the Plagas!" He stumbled back a step, partly from pain, partly from horror. As if the presence of the zombie plague in this facility wasn't enough a cause for worry, the parasitic mind control Plagas were here as well. What was Wesker trying to create, a viral zoo?

"Don't get too scared," Wesker mocked with a subtle hint in his voice. "Far as the Plagas is concerned, you've got royal blood."

"What are you doing with them?!" Kenny demanded. "You have no idea what you're dealing with, Wesker."

"As I recall," he retorted, "I was the one who sent you in on that mission – had you dragged into it, no less. So I can safely say I know exactly what it is I am dealing with."

"No, no, no," Kenny insisted, "you weren't THERE. The T-Virus – that was one thing, changing people into mindless, hungry zombies. But the Plagas didn't even do that. They manipulated the host's body while they were conscious! The host could feel their every action, every wound, and were unable to do anything about it."

"We are creating another kind of Plagas," Wesker said with finality, "and we're going to need you to keep an eye on the test subjects. The Queen inside you should at least keep them from recognizing you as an enemy, even if she might not have control over the soldiers after our modifications."

"And the test subjects?"

Wesker smirked. "A tribe of natives living in the marshlands. The Ndipaya. They're far enough away from central Kijuju for our experiments to attract much attention. Given the racial and political tension between them and those from the city, I doubt anyone would care even if they did find out."

"The nearest country with a decently stable government is Nigeria, Wesker," Kenny protested. "And their border is stone throw away! And this is genocide!"

"Nothing this continent's never seen before," he shrugged. "Now I suggest you get packing. You leave tomorrow evening."


	6. Chapter 5: Setting a Trap

**The Marshlands  
Kijuju Demilitarized Region, Africa**

Amid the chaos of splashing waves around him and a fine mist of water droplets hitting his face, Kenny stared intently through the screen of his PDA device at a dense wall of text. His lips moved silently along with the words as he read them, mind soaking in all the information he could regarding the people of the Ndipaya tribe. It was his personal and professional practice to deeply research any parties involved in assignments Wesker sent him on but given the short notice on this one, Kenny found himself cramming while being delivered to the drop off point.

The Ndipaya were once a great people, according to the article he managed to dig up from the internet. Once a major power in Central Africa, their empire included not only the marshlands, but desert areas of what is modern day Nigeria and Chad, and had only begun to decline in the 19th century. And then Umbrella stepped on it.

"Seems like Raccoon wasn't the only city Umbrella had led to its demise," Kenny thought bitterly. He looked away from his PDA partly to rest his eyes, but mostly in disgust after having learned that Umbrella's reign of terror stretched back to even when it was just a fledgling organization. The displacement – and most likely, murder - of the Ndipaya tribe was probably one of their earliest atrocities. Kenny breathed in the fresh air that blew at his face, feeling the fine water droplets from the waves the boat kicked up against his skin. The sun beat down here no less than it had in Kijuju and with the swamp water, turned the air a little too humid for his liking.

And then the first sign of human influence became visible.

Among the incredibly tall reeds stood even taller wooden poles, each about the size of his waist. They stood tall, about an entire building storey which was hard to miss in this otherwise flat area. Through the small gaps between the poles, Kenny could make out some kind of surface, most likely a walkway of some sort. As they neared the village – or "water village" as Kenny had declared in his head, he could see that these structures were all around him. The entrance to the water village was an enclosed circle! Should any visitor have the misfortune of raising suspicion, he would have arrows from all directions coming at him. Fascinating …

Fortunately for Kenny, the guard behind the post seemed to expecting them as he raised an arm and waved them down. The man indicated to a small pier below for the boat to dock. The driver of Kenny's transport waved back in acknowledgement and within a few seconds, they came to a sputtering stop by the pier where the guard met him and the driver moored the small boat.

"Kenneth Feng," Kenny greeted, extending a hand.

"My name is Abassi," the guard said politely in a melodic accent. His hand enveloped Kenny's as they shared a firm handshake. It was now that Kenny could see his recipient was a large man standing at least 6'2" in height with broad shoulders. The dark wife beater on his torso boasted arms of lithe, deep cut muscle suggesting a lifestyle consisting of mostly cardiovascular exercise; most likely a hunter or a messenger, though an underlying gruffness suggested the former. "But the visitors have been calling me Abe."

"Much easier for our barbaric western minds to remember, I'm sure," he joked. "Just call me Kenny."

"Very well, Kenny," Abe concurred, "but your aesthetics strike me to be atypical of westerners. They suggest something of a more eastern heritage, no?"

Kenny was impressed with his eloquence, despite the thick accent. Reading up on these people, he expected them to be some kind of primitive forest people with only a vague knowledge of the world beyond their swamp. Yet, Abe was able to recognize Kenny's facial features as being non-European.

"The Far East," he elaborated. "My ancestry lies in Northern China, but that was a long time ago."

"Amazing," Abe said nodding, "I am flattered that our plight is attracting people from all over the world to help us."

His words caught Kenny off-guard. "Plight?"

Kenny's ignorance seemed to surprise Abe too. "Have you not been informed of why you were brought here?"

"I was only told to monitor the well being of the Ndipaya people," he admitted. "Measure the population's blood pressure, diet, fitness levels, daily activities, that sort of thing."

"Like a nurse," Abe said, understanding now, although his terminology didn't rub Kenny the right way. Was this what Wesker sent him here to do? Be a nurse to these people? "I apologize if my words have offended you." Abe had clearly noticed Kenny's unfavorable reaction. "English is my second language and I am still learning."

"Your vocabulary is just fine," Kenny mumbled bitterly, "maybe a little too good."

"I will take you to your lodgings. It might not be as comfortable as what you are used to, but I assure you it is the best our village has to offer," he explained, leading the newcomer into a fully functional village hidden behind the guard walls. Kenny would've never guessed this was what hid behind the fortifications. Circular huts made of mud brick lined the perimeter, and in a single clump at the center, forming a circular path around the compound.

"I'm sure they will be just fine," Kenny assured politely, though at the back of his mind, he'd already begun imagining himself on a dirt floor with a rock for a pillow. "But if you could enlightening me on the 'plight' of your people, as you mentioned earlier. It wasn't brought to my attention that there was anything wrong." True, Kenny didn't know there was anything wrong with them to begin with. But after Tricell's meddling affairs, he was certain some medical attention would be needed, to put it lightly.

It was at this mention that Abe's cheerful smile faded slightly. "Yes, of course." He paused, deciding on where to begin. "Our people are suffering from an unknown illness. It started with one of our hunters, who began complaining about …"

Kenny didn't hear anything after that. Images of zombies, of innocent people throwing up, falling sick, dying and rising from the dead swam around in his head; mindless zombies shuffling on decayed feet towards him, arms outstretched, moaning in mindless hunger for blood and meat. Then he imagined zombies that could run, form words or speak, wielding basic weapons and could work as a team to trap prey; zombies that if you'd shut off their heads, a giant … THING with jaws would emerge from the neck snapping at you.

He blinked his eyes hard and rubbed them, wanting to escape from his memories back into this reality, even though he wasn't sure if this reality would be safe for much longer. "Is there something wrong with your lodgings?" he heard Abe's voice ask. Looking around, Kenny could see he was in a modest hut with a cot tucked in a corner and some decorative tribal masks hanging on the wall. In the center of the floor, there was a fire pit and directly above that, a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape. There was a basic wooden table and a stool placed in the corner opposite the bed for Kenny to work and eat at.

"Like I said," Abe restated, "it might not be as comfortable as your hotels back in the U.S. but it is the best our village has."

"No, it's not that," Kenny said, waving off his apologies, "these lodgings are more than I expected and I'm grateful. It's about the illness that's going around that I'm more concerned about."

"Yes, the doctors are helping us. They have been monitoring our health, provided us with vitamins and medicine, and they will soon be delivering a cure."

"H…help?" Kenny stuttered. He didn't know what was going on in this village but his being sent here by Tricell told him that these poor people were being anything but helped. His memory flashed back to last night, when Wesker revealed what was being done to the Ndipaya, the words echoing in his head. _They're far enough away from central Kijuju for our experiments to attract much attention. _

Kenny's mouth went dry, his heart began thumping. An overwhelming wave of guilt and sorrow washed over him. And Abe stood there looking at him curiously in blissful ignorance to the danger he and his people were in.

"You look like you could use some rest," Abe said, "our climate isn't very accommodating to foreigners. Rest here and I will get you something to eat." He didn't wait for Kenny to reply as he turned around and exited the guest hut, closing the rickety wooden door behind him.

Kenny closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Now he knew how Tricell managed to get the Ndipaya to cooperate with their experiments – by introducing some kind of illness that opened the door for an opportunity to test a "cure" – to test the Plagas Wesker had told him about the night before, the Type 2.

**XXXXX  
The Hyatt  
New York City, USA**

It was just before 3:00 pm that Dorian decided to get some rest. It wasn't the time of day to get some sleep but the jet lag hadn't worn off yet. The five hour time difference had taken more of a toll on Dorian's wiry body than he'd anticipated. Except now that he was lying comfortable in a posh hotel suite on the seventeenth floor of the Hyatt on a queen sized bed surrounded by fresh flowers, he couldn't fall asleep.

True, he wasn't in an environment he was used to. Dorian liked hard mattresses, pillows flattened by the weight of his head, fluffed by his own hands. These sheets were spotless and the covers carried a hint of lavender when tousled. There was even a piece of chocolate on the pillow which, when Dorian popped into his mouth, cleaned it with a wave of minty flavor that made him feel like he'd already brushed his teeth.

It wasn't the unfamiliarity of his surroundings that kept him awake. It was the fact that Chris Redfield – a seasoned warrior from what Dorian had learned – was hesitant in going into Africa. The man had faced viral monstrosities in a rural mansion far from any help and survived unscathed. He survived rescue missions on an uninhabited island, the frozen tundra of Siberia and the Antarctic. Here was a rescue mission in Africa that Dorian was practically handing to him on a silver platter; for a dear friend of his no less, and yet Chris hesitated.

Instinctively, Dorian went for his laptop, plugged it into the wall and waited patiently for his unforgivably slow operating system to awake from its slumber. Memories of his conversation with Kenny back in Kijuju flashed through his mind. Dorian had always been suspicious of Tricell ever since the destruction of the WilPharma HQ in the outskirts of Harvardville. He was among the first journalists, the first PEOPLE on the scene following its destruction. Dorian remembered hiding in the bushes of the surrounding forests peering at the wreckage through a pair of muddy binoculars. His camera lens had cracked and was smeared with mud and all he managed to get away with were a few blurry shots of the Tricell men in biohazard suits removing what looked like parts of a large animal so big, it had to be hacked into pieces to be transported in body bags. Those were the photographs he'd tried to release to the press but the National Enquirer was the only semi-legit firm that got back to him. Nobody believed that the seemingly innocent Tricell Inc. was up to something. And then Tricell offered to buy out the now bankrupt WilPharma. After Umbrella's illegal experiments and WilPharma's intentional outbreak of the T-Virus in Harvardville and India, Dorian had a hard time trusting any major pharmaceutical corporation; Tricell's purchasing the defunct WilPharma notwithstanding.

And upon researching something seemingly completely unrelated like the racial genocides in Africa, Tricell rears their ugly head again, this time in the form of a dear friend. This company was teasing him from just beyond his grasp. Now more than ever, Dorian knew they were up to something but whatever it was, it was being kept just out of his reach. Kenny had hinted at this with his refusals to answer Dorian's questions. Even Chris had hesitated going into Africa to retrieve his partner over this … THING about Tricell that Dorian failed to comprehend.

He sighed in frustration and headed to the balcony for a cigarette. It was when he had smoked it within half an inch of the filter when the cigarette fell out of his hands. Dorian had just let it slip as his body was frozen with shock suddenly. Kenny had every reason to refuse to answer Dorian's questions because he was working for a shady company, fine. But what about Chris Redfield, the hero of illegal biohazard crime fighting? What was it about Tricell that had him dodging conversation about them?

Then it started to make sense. Somehow, Tricell must have gotten to Christopher Redfield too.

Without even bothering to stomp out his cigarette, Dorian dashed back inside his suite and sat down at his laptop that had now successfully warmed up, and he began to research.

**XXXXX  
Ndipaya Relocation Camp  
Kijuju Demilitarized Zone, Africa**

Kenny strode into the medical tent pitched in a natural enclosure of tall canyon-like walls. It was seven in the morning and the heat was already starting to reach intolerable levels for him. A canteen full of what used to be ice cold water hung at his hip from a long strap over the opposite shoulder, which he now uncapped and drank from. The water that poured into his mouth was now lukewarm. He frowned at the unexpected temperature but gulped it down anyway.

"Reporting for duty, Dr. Irving," he said, not without a bitter tone in his voice.

The small-statured doctor looked up from his desk where up until that point, he had been hunched over, peering at some handwritten notes. Out from the air conditioned confines of his air-conditioned laboratory, Irving didn't look very well here – his face was flushed, his lips were cracked. He reached out a hand, into which Kenny placed the lid of his canteen, refilled with more lukewarm water which the doctor gulped down thirstily.

"You're early," Irving said, placing the empty cap back into Kenny's hand, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

"You know me," Kenny replied sarcastically, "can't wait to get started. Using unwilling volunteers to test my latest viral cocktails by making them believe it's good for them – that's what I'm most passionate about in life and why I'm perfect for this job."

"Am I going to have to put up with this everyday for your duration here?"

More honestly now, Kenny's voice dropped in volume with a last ditch attempt to plead with Irving. "Do we seriously have to go through with this?" Irving sighed as if he'd heard these kinds of protests before, though not necessarily from Kenny alone. "This is wrong and you know it. I know Umbrella's never given a flying fuck about being on the right side of the law but this is wrong on a moral level. You wanna test your virus, fine but there's got to be another way. A way that'll end with us getting egged by PETA or something, but not goddamned genocide!"

Irving let him carry on without interrupting. When Kenny had finished, he motioned for the young man to have a seat at his desk. Soon as he was seated, Irving joined him and reflected Kenny's honesty with his own words – a notion that surprised the both of them. "I don't do this for fun. I do this for efficiency. The Type 2 Plagas was specifically based on the original species that created the Ganados when they infested human hosts."

Irving paused to give Kenny a chance to absorb what he had said. When no answer came forth, he continued.

"After our modifications, we need to see how these new Plagas will react to other humans too."

"That's not a good enough excuse," Kenny said with finality.

Irving scoffed. "That moral platform you're standing on is crumbling under the weight of your guilt."

"I have never murdered anyone!" Kenny said, rising suddenly from his seat so quickly, he nearly toppled the chair, "let alone an entire culture!"

Irving rose to meet Kenny's glare with a smirk on his face. "There's a first for everything. And going by your role in this operation, you're well on your way."

"Look, I don't want …"

"Tell it to Wesker," Irving interrupted. "I've got another operation to attend to."

"Another day, another population to wipe out," Kenny noted sarcastically.

"Actually, this time it's not so much a 'population' exactly. It's more like an organization of people."

Hearing this, Kenny's interest peaked. "Who?" he asked with more force than intended.

"The Biohazard Security Assessment Alliance," Irving replied, the smirk never leaving his face. "They're only going to become a bigger problem for us as research into the Type 2 Plagas and the Uroboros progresses. We need to stomp them out while they don't even suspect us. A few Majini sent in their general direction and it's goodnight for them."

"Chris," Kenny said under his breath.

"By the time anyone notices something is wrong," Irving continued not having heard him over his ego, "It'll be too late for them to do anything about it."

"How do you propose we get the world's largest international biohazard security committee over here in the first place?"

Irving gave him a questioning look. "A moment ago you were talking about how morally bankrupt our operations were. Now you want to participate?"

"I've … got something invested in the destruction of the B.S.A.A." It was a half truth but it would have to do. Things were working out too conveniently for Kenny. He wanted Chris Redfield to come to Kijuju for Jill Valentine, and Irving's plan to lure the B.S.A.A. here could raise Chris's chance of coming with them. The only thing that worried Kenny about this plan was whether or not Chris Redfield could live through the slaughter.

"We get their attention by conducting a fake illegal weapons deal," Irving explained. "This will be completely orchestrated under the cover of a rebel group. Under no circumstances will they ever find out that Tricell is behind everything. The B.S.A.A. will be destroyed by the very bioweapons they hunt."


	7. Chapter 6: Old Allies

**Internet Café,  
Kijuju Demilitarized Region, Africa**

Kenny blinked hard and shifted his eyes from the glaring computer screen to give them a rest. For the past few hours, they had been staring at a bland series of horizontal and vertical lines converging into what vaguely resembled a digital spreadsheet. And as such, naturally it wasn't anything pretty to look at but functioned at peak efficiency; in this case, recording the heartbeats, blood pressure, stamina, and strength among others of every member of the Npidaya tribe. Not even the children were spared the physical tests, but were much lighter in labor compared to what the adults went through.

Kenny took a swig of iced black coffee out of the paper cup. After a day in this dry heat drinking warm water for hydration, anything he consumed had to be straight out of the freezer or well iced in fear it would get distastefully warm before he could finish it. The café was a dirty old cubic building with old, stained paint peeling off the concrete walls. He could see some kind of tribal motif tiled into the floor beneath layers of years and years of grime, wear and tear. From a corner in the ceiling, an old rickety air conditioning unit ripped straight from the seventies filled the space with semi-cold air, generating more heat by functioning than it was the cold air it was producing. The other patrons, mostly foreign workers manning the local oil rigs, didn't seem to mind the questionable air conditioning unit either, as the little work It did made the temperature much more bearable.

He was just about to get back to the Ndipaya's spreadsheet after sufficiently resting his eyes when a conversation window popped onto screen.

_Yo, are you there? _

He went from slouching to leaning forward intensely, his face inches from the screen. Dorian Marquez. It had been awhile since Kenny had heard from him and he was starting to wonder about Dorian's progress.

_Ya, I'm here. _Kenny wrote back. _Did you find Chris?_

He hit enter and waited for a response. Kenny's fingers tapped the tabletop impatiently. The conversation window indicated that Dorian was typing … and then not … and then he was typing again. Seconds dragged on for hours. In his anticipation, Kenny began to feel unbearably warm again, and he took a deep breath to calm his nerves down.

_Yeah._ That was Dorian's only reply.

_How fucking long does it take to type_ 'yeah' ?. Kenny was about to hit enter when he deleted the entire sentence, deciding to settle with, _So what did he say?_

_Said he'd do something about the Kijuju situation, but it was probably just to shut me up. I don't actually think it's high on his priority list. _

_It's no surprise he was able to survive multiple zombie outbreaks,_ Kenny replied, _the guy has the thickest skull, I swear._

_Or maybe no brains for the zombies to get at, lol, _Dorian added, which earned him an unconscious smirk from Kenny. _But listen dude, I have a favor to ask of you._

_You took a risk for me, I suppose I could repay it. _

_I need to find out why Chris is so reluctant to believe that his partner is still alive. I need to know what scares him into not wanting to step onto that continent at all. _

To Kenny, it didn't sound like Chris at all to be scared, which was what confused him. Dorian didn't know Chris, but as an investigative journalist, Kenny was sure Dorian was good at reading people via their subtle facial expressions and mannerisms.

_What do you need me to do?_

_Gather intel, Kenny. As much as you can find in Tricell's files about Redfield or the B.S.A.A. Anything will help. _

_Got it, _Kenny replied, _I'll be in touch with you in two or three days. Over and out._ Upon closing the conversation window, Kenny deleted the conversation history in the event his laptop would be seized. He downed what was left of his ice coffee and sank into his own thoughts.

He was willing to give Dorian whatever he wanted as long as he could convince Chris to come to Kijuju and bust Officer Valentine out. Secretly however, Kenny also hoped that in doing so, Chris would take out Wesker and subsequently free him from Wesker's control. But the situation had grown even more complicated after Ricardo revealed the plan to lure the B.S.A.A. into Kijuju anyway, and unleash the new Plagas infected locals on them. Kenny was no longer sure that he wanted Chris here, in the face of this new threat. Of course, Chris would be insulted if he ever found out that Kenny was worried for his safety, and maybe that would be enough incentive for him to barge his way into Africa. Kenny doubted it, though. That was what Chris would have done ten years ago, and he had no doubt that he'd done a lot of maturing since then.

Kenny reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and pulled out a trinket that he held close through all his years working under Wesker. It was a sew-on patch of the long defunct Raccoon City branch of the S.T.A.R.S. organization given to him by Chris Redfield himself, long ago during the days Kenny worked at the Raccoon Police Precinct as a work experience kid. It was a spare patch that the R.P.D. had lying around which Chris took upon himself to steal and present it to Kenny to celebrate his first birthday with the Raccoon Police Department. Underneath the S.T.A.R.S. logo was a blank banner where the recruit's name was supposed to be embroidered, Kenny's last name "FENG" was written with a permanent black marker, rendered closely as possible to the original font.

_I'm still on your side,_ Kenny thought silently to himself as he stared at the patch in his palm. _And I think I know what Dorian needs to get you here to rescue Jill. _

**Crankurt's Irish Pub  
New York City, USA**

Chris Redfield nurtured a large mug of dark lager, moving the glass between fingertips calloused from a lifetime of physical labor in between swigs. Though his eyes pierced the glass from beneath furrowed brows through the dark foaming amber liquid that refracted deep golden light onto the polished oak table where he sat alone, it was not what he saw at all. This was his fifth glass and now the vision of Jill Valentine's face swam before his eyes, drowning in his beer, the look of sheer terror etched onto her otherwise gentle features as she crashed into the foamy waves below. Chris squeezed his eyes shut but he was too buzzed to un-see the image his mind recollected. And the alcohol made it all the more real.

A pair of barely legal girls Chris noticed earlier ogling him from across the bar seemed to have mustered the courage to approach him. They walked towards him with exaggerated movements, thrusting their hips with every step, shoulders back, protruding their otherwise modest breasts forward. He didn't have to see the girls to notice their presence, if the volume of their giggling was any sign.

"Girlfriend stood you up?" one of them asked in a singsong voice. Chris got a strange waft of vanilla perfume mixed with vodka. He didn't say anything, just grunted in response, but the girls didn't seem satisfied with his reaction to them. The other one, raven-haired cut with long bangs and stick straight locks reaching down to her shoulders took a seat beside him at his table. This one smelled like strawberries.

"Whatever you're sad about," she said, "best leave it at the door. That's why you came here in the first place, right? Just forget about all your troubles and have a good time." She gave his elbow a light tug and cocked her heard to the back of the bar. "Come join us."

"I appreciate the thought ladies," Chris finally said, "But I don't think your boyfriends would be too fond of finding me at your table with the two of you hanging off me like this.

"I don't think you'll have much trouble handling them," Vanilla replied, caressing his arm.

"I'm not interested," Chris said politely, but sternly enough that they got the message.

"Can't say we didn't try," Strawberry shrugged and she and her companion left Chris well alone.

He downed what was left of his beer, threw some money on the table and rose to leave when someone moved in from his peripheral vision and took the seat that Strawberry had been occupying seconds before. The new comer gave Chris a questioning look with a face that he recognized but couldn't quite place.

"Dorian Marquez," the man said and motioned with his hand, inviting Chris to reclaim his seat at the table. Chris remained standing, refusing the gesture.

Of course, he was the self-proclaimed journalist who had practically broken into his office days before with an unscheduled appointment. He was lucky Chris had let him leave in one piece, though it was smart on the journalist's part to have mentioned Kenny and Jill in one sitting. Though he had entertained Dorian then, he was certainly in no mood to indulge him further. "I have no more information to give you."

"I'm not here to ask you questions, Mr. Redfield," Dorian interrupted. He tossed a stack of neatly stapled sheets onto the tabletop which Chris eyed, but did not handle.

"What is this?" he grunted.

"Tax information," Dorian replied, acknowledging that Chris wasn't going to read it, and that it didn't matter if he did. "Tricell's, to be more specific." Dorian paused to let the weight of his words sink in, but Chris was intent on playing dumb. It enraged him that this weasel of a reporter would go digging through private company information for the sake of exalted gossip to be printed in the local newspapers.

"This is none of your –"

"It actually is," Dorian interjected rather aggressively. "Tricell Inc. is government funded, a publicly traded company so it wasn't too hard to get a copy of their tax files."

"I find it hard to believe they would just hand it over to some journalist," Chris muttered.

"They wouldn't. I just have my sources."

"Did Kenny have anything to do with this?" He paused and looked at Dorian with and accusing glare, but he was quick to change the subject.

"It interests me to find out that Tricell's donations to other companies provided a huge tax write-off for them. Of course, they're not the only ones who do this. Shadawlaw does, and Umbrella Inc. most _certainly_ did."

"Just what are you trying to get at, Marquez?" Chris hissed. He pulled up his chair at sat at the table with Dorian, leaned on his elbows towards the younger man, holding his nose inches away from Dorian's. Brows creased, eyes narrowed with near blinding rage at the journalist, the fucking BOY barely out of his teens insinuating that the B.S.A.A. was up to … up to something Chris hadn't quite yet figured out, but was just a tool for Tricell.

Confirming Chris's quick assumption at Dorian's youth, he suddenly went angel-eyed and with an unassuming tone said, "I'd just like to know, sir. I want to see if I can get any information that will help my friend." Chris wanted to laugh and yet, give Dorian a belting he would never forget all at the same time. Claire Redfield, Chris's younger sister had tried this on him for most of their childhood – hell, she'd probably even try it now – and it had been a long time since Chris was able to see through it like glass.

"Kid," Chris began, folding his hands, using the big-brother tone he had plenty of practice with, "I know you like showing up here thinking you've got the dirt on some international police organization and making yourself look like the big man. But you might wanna start with something smaller. I think you're way in over your head with this. Do some research, and …"

"I did a bit of reading," Dorian offered, cutting Chris off. He took the stack of paper and cleared his throat. "Like it says here from Tricell's database, in May of 2005, Tricell purchased five thousand, two hundred and seventy-odd B.S.A.A. shares at five American dollars each. That's over twenty five thousand dollars worth of shares. Not surprising since the fall of Umbrella, I could see governments pouring in funding out their mouths to prevent a disaster like Raccoon City occurring in their countries – especially the American government. But this is Tricell Inc. we're talking about, not a federal organization. Why would they spend so much money investing in a company that fights the viruses they create the vaccines for, and get rich off of?"

"Tricell is a pharmaceutical company," Chris countered, "who does nothing more than creates medicines for viruses. As an anti-bioterrorism organization, it would be in our best interest to have the medical community on our side. We fight for the same goal. What so suspicious about that?"

"So you confirm then, that the B.S.A.A. is being funded in part by Tricell Inc."

Chris threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "I really don't know what you are trying to get at. And if you are trying to build a case based on hunches and rumors from half a world away, then this might not be the best career choice for you, Mr. Marquez. Now if you'll excuse me, I've had it indulging you and your bullshit." Chris rose from his seat and stormed out of the bar, leaving turned heads and curious expressions in his wake. Strawberry and Vanilla stared after him as well, eyes wide, ruby lips pressed to stifle a giggle.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," Dorian said quietly, pressing the stop button on a small recorder he kept hidden under the lapels of his wrinkled shirt.

**XXXXX  
Tricell Underground Laboratory  
Kijuju, Africa**

The stack of notes, charts, slides and handouts that Kenny carried under an arm for a presentation of the Type 2 Plagas scheduled to begin in roughly 30 minutes fell from his grasp and crashed onto the cold tile flooring the moment he walked into the base. Unconscious bodies of scientists and guards alike littered the floor around him. His mind screamed for him to run but the fear and confusion that rooted his feet was stronger than concrete. Was it the woman's scream, the fact that she was being manhandled by three burly men in combat gear, or the fact that Kenny _thought_ he recognized her? It was the pleading gaze from her crystal blue eyes brimming with tears that cut the proverbial ropes that held him to the spot. He ran towards the woman, screaming her name.

"Officer Valentine!"

But before he could get any closer, his passage was blocked off by two more soldiers who looked no different than the three dragging her away into another room. Kenny tried to charge past the two despite that the top of his head reached the chest of the shorter soldier. Instead of breaking through, he bounced off them and onto his rear.

"Get out of the way," he ordered the soldiers.

The tall one smirked. "We're under direct orders from Excella Gionne," he said. "Nobody interferes."

From beyond Kenny's human barricade, he heard Jill call out to him. "Kenny, please … don't let them do this …" He had never seen her so scared in the ten years he'd known her. She was not the lock picking survivalist with an iron will to live. Jill's normally gentle, loving face was bruised on one side. An eye was swelled shut. Fresh blood, sweat and saliva coated her skin. One soldier had an arm wrapped around her throat while his other hand grasped locks of her brown hair. Another held her legs, wheelbarrow-style, as the both of them marched her towards the exit. The third had his gun trained on her head, laser guide set directly between her eyes as she sobbed.

"I will deal with Excella myself," Kenny said, trying with all his might to suppress the desperation in his voice. "Now I will not repeat myself a third time. Get out of the way." He rose to his feet once again to stand up to the two soldiers preventing him from advancing any further. They didn't move, standing unmovable as giant walls of muscle. Kenny sighed and turned around, shoulders drooped as he bent down to pick up the files he dropped, then walked away.

It wasn't much of a confrontation up to that point – because it was only when he'd gained a few meters from the guards that he threw a miniature smoke grenade at their feet, about the size of a ping-pong ball. Thick white, choking smoke spewed from the grenade and that's when Kenny ran back at them. This time, their writhing forms were no match for the momentum he charged at them with. He tore through the soldiers while they coughed and wheezed, running head first into the first of Jill's captors; the one with his gun trained on her face. Fortunately they were unable to hear the commotion Kenny caused over the sounds of Jill's desperate cries for help. The gun went flying into the air while he focused on the shooter, both fists raining down on his face. The other two captives practically dropped Jill and rushed to their comrade's aid. One went to help their friend while the other parried a right hook from Kenny, threw a shoulder into his chest, and snatched him by the throat. Kenny grasped at the soldier's arm trying in vain to release the strong grasp that was now suffocating him. The next thing he felt was a sharp pain between two of his left ribs, and then darkness.

**XXXXX  
Unknown Underground  
Kijuju, Africa**

Kenny awoke to a throat made of sandpaper, blurry vision, and a hell of a pounding headache. It was a hangover on steroids which, he realized just then, that he must have been drugged. He groaned and tried to sit up, only to find that his hands were bound with handcuffs behind his back; as were his feet. Grunting with frustration, he attempted rocking himself into a sitting position until a voice stopped him.

"You're still under the influence," she said.

"Officer Valentine?" Through Kenny's blurry vision, he could still make out her familiar form. Her face had dried off since he last saw her. The blood trail that ran down from her hairline was now a brown crusty trail from what it used to be. Her brown hair, now kept longer than the chin length he remembered, was now neatly tucked behind her ears. Her right eye was still swollen shut, however. And her limbs, like his, were bound. Jill sat upright at the corner of their makeshift cell, which by the look of the shelf of cleaning chemicals and dirty mops and broomsticks, he guessed was a janitor's closet.

"Kenny, it's been a _long_ time since I've been a police officer," she corrected. "I know you've known me forever as 'Officer Valentine' but from now on, it's Jill, okay? Try not to move around too much. Let the tranquilizer wear off."

He decided it was best to listen to her, and remained lying in the position he found himself in. "I'm sorry," he said.

Jill gave a soft gasp, appalled. "For what? If anything, I'm the one who is sorry for getting you dragged into this." She rubbed her cheek against her shoulder.

"Who knows what they were going to do to you?"

"It looks like they're going to kill me anyway. The only difference is now you're stuck in here with me, and we don't know what they're gonna do to you."

"I wouldn't worry about your life," Kenny assured her. "You're valuable to Wesker alive. Irving and I were able to find a naturally occurring resistance to the T-Virus in your body. I used that fact to convince Wesker to spare you."

She opened her mouth to say something but the words were caught in her throat. "A…are you sure about this?" Jill shook her head. "I don't understand how my body could have been made resistant. I was cured the moment I was infected."

"Maybe you weren't actually cured," Kenny offered. "Maybe the virus was suppressed long enough for your body to produce anti-bodies."

"I see …" Jill trailed off, then switched the subject. "So if I'm useful to him, what about you? Why did you have to put yourself in trouble for me?"

"Well I don't know if you've noticed, Jill," Kenny said, "but since you've got here, I've been trying to convince Wesker why he should hold off using you as a test subject. And trust me, it's not easy."

"And how long have you been loyal to him now?"

"Six years."

"Six … goddamn it, Kenny …"

"Chris told me ten years ago that it was all over," Kenny continued. "It was at Umbrella's Antarctic base. I'd been slashed across my back by one of those Hunter creatures. I was dying from blood loss. He patched me up with some herb powder and some makeshift bandages and told me he was going to destroy Wesker. But he didn't. Wesker came for me six years later."

"That was when the Ashley Graham was kidnapped," Jill finished. "Kenny, I'm so sorry. We thought Wesker was dead. Chris left him to perish in the explosion of the Antarctic base. No human could have survived that."

"No _human_ could, no," Kenny agreed, "but Wesker's something else. And that reminds me …" Jill looked at him inquisitively. "Wesker has a weakness," he elaborated. "His superhuman strength comes from a variant of the Progenitor virus, one that preserves his intelligence and his physical abilities. Unfortunately the virus's natural tendency toward human biology is to essentially zombify them. Wesker takes regular injections of a chemical agent called PG67A/W to keep from zombifying and to maintain his superhuman strength."

"This is good to know but, how did you find this out?" Jill asked. "I worked under him too, once upon a time when he was still with the S.T.A.R.S. and if anything, Albert Wesker does not share personal information. You'd be lucky if he so much smiled at you for a job well done."

"I administer these injections sometimes," Kenny said.

"And he trusts you with this information?"

"He knows if he dies, I'd be on a one way trip to prison, maybe even an execution. I wouldn't be so quick to share his one weakness with anyone."

"Yet here you are telling me."

"That's because I don't want to have a hand in the death of anyone else. Officer … Jill, they're conducting Type 2 Plagas experiments on the local Ndipaya tribe members, and my job is to track how each villager is responding to their 'medicine.'"

Jill's jaw dropped.

"I am embedded with these people. They feed me, they house me. I smoke with the elders and play stupid games with their children. And they continue this hospitality in the face of their own …" He couldn't finish his sentence, so he started a new one. "I can't do this anymore. I need it to end."

"There is no end to his savagery," Jill whispered with horror.

"That's why we need to spread the information. Now four people know Wesker's weakness."

"Who are the others?"

"Wesker himself, and Excella Gionne – his commercial partner, CEO of Tricell Inc."

"She …"

"She is not on our side. Trust me on this. So please, if Chris gets to you before he does me, promise me you'll remember to tell him what I just told you."

"Yes, but I don't think Chris is coming," Jill said regretfully. "He thinks I'm dead. He saw me fall out of that castle. Whatever happens, it's up to us to get ourselves out of here."

"Maybe not. I've got a contact in the United States who I've been sending information to. He's a journalist. He's already managed to find Chris."

"Oh God, Chris hates journalists. But if he actually manages to get Chris over here, then yes, Kenny, I promise to share the information with him. We'll take Wesker down together – all three of us."

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the opening of the cleaning closet door, bathing the two captives in fluorescent light from the hallway. Three armed guards stood in the doorway dressed similar to the men who put them here. They were likely even the same men. Jill shrank back into the corner while Kenny remained lying still, looking at them fearfully from the corner of his eye. While one of them kept the prisoners at the nozzle of his handgun, the other two pulled Kenny and Jill to their feet by the elbows. Kenny was slow to regain his balance, still under the effects of the tranquilizer they shot him with earlier, and ended up being half-dragged out into the hallway.

"We are ready for you," the guard told him. "The both of you."


	8. Chapter 7: The Bird Lady

**Penthouse Suite  
New York City, U.S.A.**

From up here, the taxis down below looked like little yellow ants with glowing eyes forever stuck in a traffic jam that never moved. Up here, the wind was stronger, dryer, and much colder with no buildings obscuring its path. Up here was where Chris liked it the most for it reminded him of simpler times on the field, danger just a few feet away at the business end of a gun, hiding behind makeshift covers. He was point-man of the Raccoon City S.T.A.R.S. unit, Alpha team. The cold wind blowing at his face brought back memories of rescuing stranded hikers from the Arklay Mountains in winter, hikers who snuck past the barriers at the mouths of the trails. The faint gunshots in the distance reminded him of the one bank robbery the S.T.A.R.S. unit foiled. The incident was memorable not so much because of the nature of it, but because it was when he'd exchanged flirtatious glances with one of the tellers sporting the naughty librarian look despite the boulder of a diamond she wore on her finger. Jill had caught him ogling the girl and punched him in the chest hard enough to lightly bruise.

Chris absent-mindedly put his hand on the spot where Jill had punched him, now reminded of her. He gazed out into the distance, beyond the skyline of New York City and wondered if she was dead like he'd always thought, or was she actually somewhere out there like Dorian had claimed? Was it a chance he was willing to take from a reporter Chris didn't even know? For the first time in years, Chris reached into his vest pocket for a cigarette that wasn't there. Though it had been years since he'd smoked his last one, the reflex still hadn't died. He frowned, thinking now was a good time for one as he contemplated the choices that lay before him on his rooftop balcony. He was so absorbed into his own thoughts that Chris was lucky he heard the knock on his front door. The New York penthouse suite was so vast, the sound had to travel quite a distance to reach his ears.

He moaned as his senses were dragged back into this metropolitan reality and he walked – in no hurry – to answer the door. Chris peered through the peephole and was pleased to discover a fellow B.S.A.A. team member, Daniel DeChant. He opened the door to let his good friend in and the two embraced in the manliest of man-hugs either of them could muster. The cold winter air that clung to his bulky ski jacket would have chilled Chris through his T-shirt if Chris had not just been outside on the balcony. DeChant reached into the pockets of his outer wear and produced four bottles of beer, two in each hand, and grinned childishly at his friend.

"Cold enough outside to keep 'em chilled," he said.

"I knew I kept you around for a reason," Chris joked, taking the bottles from DeChant, who proceeded to remove his jacket. Beneath it, he sported a dark blue low turtle-neck sweater that barely contained an impressive frame for a man in his early forties. He was an ex-sergeant with the US Marines up until a few years ago, Chris remembered him saying once. The man lost his wife and young son in a bitter divorce on the basis that he had dedicated far too much time to servicing his country, and not his family. DeChant left the army as a statement of dedication to his family but it was too little too late at that point. With his son visiting him twice a month, DeChant found that he the time to go about continuing doing what he loved most – serving. But he had too much honor to go crawling back to the Marines, and it was around that time Chris Redfield came across his application forms to join the B.S.A.A. It was only once that he asked DeChant about his family and that was only long after his credentials were approved through all levels of the organization's hierarchy and he was hired. They had discussed this after a few pints, and it was the one and only time Chris had ever seen DeChant's eyes looked moister than they usually were. Whatever tears he had, if they could be called that, he'd blinked away in an instant for he was a hard man. Fine wrinkles at the wings of his nostrils and the corners of his mouth gave him the expression of a permanent frown. His brow, strong and prominent sheltered a pair of deep set eyes, supported by bags of stress from his bitter divorce. His nose, so sharp and long, pointed like an accusing finger to whoever he faced. And it was with that kind of accusation with which he spoke to Chris now.

"I know you didn't keep me around for my leadership qualities," he said, trying to pass it off as a side comment, though Chris was sure he wanted it to be a subject of discussion.

"Elaborate," Chris replied, playing dumb as he handed DeChant a bottle. He popped the lid off with a single flick of his thumb, threw his head back and began downing the amber liquid. He didn't stop until three quarters of the bottle had gone down his esophagus, after which Chris exhaled loudly, released a gassy belch and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

DeChant, on the other hand, still held the bottle, appearing to be concentrating on it, though it was likelier he was figuring out the right words to say in his head. "What I mean is," he began, "I get the feeling you made me leader of the Alpha unit because you didn't want to be."

Chris shook his head, unable to believe he was hearing this from his team captain of at least three years. He held out an open hand, in which lay a bottle opener. "Use this," Chris offered, "and try not to break a nail using it." DeChant chuckled and snatched up the tool and went right to work on the bottle cap. "To tell you the truth, buddy, this isn't the first "Alpha" team I've ever served with. And frankly my last Captain was …" Chris snapped his fingers, trying to come up with an appropriate term.

"Kind of a douche?"

Chris stopped and sneered at DeChant's suggestion. "That's giving him way too much credit," he said.

"Don't worry about it, man," DeChant replied, "Jill gave me some insight on the legendary Albert Wesker. Seems she had no love lost for the man either." Chris's gaze fell downward upon the mention of her name. It had been years since her death but the wound had barely begun to heal, thanks in part to that sneaky reporter harassing Chris with the idea that she may still be alive. He'd made it a point not to talk about it, to let the damage in his heart heal from her loss, but here everyone was all of a sudden, bringing her up at every given opportunity. "I'm sorry, dude," DeChant said, noticing Chris's reaction. "I miss her too. I know, I don't go back nearly as far with Jill as you do, but nonetheless, she meant a lot to me too."

"It's not so much that," Chris half-lied, "but the idea that …" He faltered. He wasn't sure how he would sound to his friend, but he needed it off his chest and was glad suddenly that DeChant was here for him to talk to. "You don't think she could still be alive, do you?"

DeChant sighed in response.

"No, I mean it," Chris said, sounding almost desperate this time, "I mean they never found her body. They didn't find Wesker's either. What if …"

DeChant cut him off by placing a sympathizing hand on Chris's shoulder. "Nobody could survive a fall like that. The ocean current would have carried her out to sea. The water, the sea life, there's no way her body would've … Look, Chris, it's not a nice thing to think about but you really need to think rationally about this and not hang on to some false hope. I had a friend who was in the Air Force, Colonel William Guile who also held onto the ghost of a dead friend that nearly shattered him and his family. I don't want you to go through the same thing."

"I don't have a family to shatter," Chris said weakly, as if he didn't care what happened to him.

"You have Claire," DeChant pushed. "What's she going to think if she were to ever see her invincible big brother like this? Jill may be gone but there are still people in your life who care about you, man. I'm one of them. When I was battling Laura for custody of Brandon, my _son_, my own flesh and blood, you were there for me every step of the damn way. Sorry, but I'm not gonna let you wallow in your despair." It was only then that DeChant started on his beer. Chris did as his friend suggested but all that was left of his beer was a small sip. "You know what, bud?" DeChant clapped him on the shoulder. "You're gonna need stronger stuff than that." He pulled out a small tin flask from the pocket of his jeans that Chris eyed suspiciously.

"Soju," DeChant said, reaching for an unwashed crystal shot glass from the kitchen sink. "Korean hard alcohol I got in Chinatown a couple months back."

"Dan, that shot glass has been lying there for days," Chris protested.

"Relax, the alcohol content in this little baby is high enough to sanitize the glass and knock out an elephant … at the same time." DeChant gave another grin that betrayed his age and poured some of the clear liquid into another shot glass, this one procured from the overhead cupboards, and handed it to Chris.

Chris drank up and instantly felt like his whole face was on fire, cringing to suppress the harsh alcoholic taste. He wouldn't have been surprised if steam had been shooting out his ears. He reflexively gagged as his throat and chest singed with heat.. DeChant watched him with amusement as he drank his own portion. His reaction was like Chris's only much more muted. He slammed the shot glass and thumped Chris on the back. "What about it, buddy, huh? How about another?"

Chris held up a hand. "One sec," he wheezed. "I think I need to die first."

Satisfied with his friend's reaction, DeChant poured another shot for himself.

"Kanpai, old buddy."

**XXXXX  
Underground Laboratory  
Kijuju Autonomous Zone, Africa**

Kenny's head twisted to the side from the vicious backhanded slap Wesker delivered with his super-human strength. The leather gloves Wesker donned contacted the skin of his cheek, producing an agonizing burn from the impact. Kenny winced, letting out an involuntary yelp. Tears leaked from eyes squeezed shut. He opened his mouth to breathe but it caused the skin on his cheek to stretch, igniting the fiery pain once again. Kenny tasted blood in his mouth that could have come from a tooth Wesker knocked out, or the giant cut on his lower lip. He could no longer see out of his right eye which had swelled to elephantine proportions. Wesker would have boxed his other eye as well, but decided he wanted Kenny to see what was being done to him. A knee to the abdomen winded him, and Kenny fell to the ground clutching at his own torso. The right side of his face was pressed into the ground, partially muffling the weakened moan of agony that escaped from his lips. Wesker stood before his grounded subject to admire his handy work but there was no satisfaction in his expression. He looked upon Kenny with disgust and sneered.

"I give you shelter," Wesker hissed, delivering a boot to between his shoulder blades. "I provide food and drink." Another kick to the kidneys. Kenny screamed and put his hands to his lower back, rolling over onto his back. Wesker slammed his boot down onto his chest. "And after all this time, you betray me." Kenny cursed the darkness that began invading his vision. He was about to slip out of consciousness but determined to hold onto it, he focused on the sight far behind Wesker, Jill, who he'd tried to save and got caught instead. Four men lay on the ground around her clutching various body parts in pain. Another two held onto her but were clearly losing control. From both sides of the room, more men came in to help apprehend her. Jill was a tough woman, but you would never have known by merely laying eyes on her. Still, strong and persistent as she was, those men would overpower her, Kenny knew it. Wesker paid them no heed however, as he continued glowering over Kenny's broken, battered body. The sterile looking tiles beneath Kenny were smeared with his blood and spit.

"Leave him alone!" Jill threatened Wesker from across the room as she was being dragged into what looked like an upright dentist chair with large cruel looking clamps where the head would be. "Kenny has nothing to do with this!" Jill continued struggling until the men slammed her viciously into the chair, clamping her wrists and ankles down. They fastened a leather strap attached to the chair around her neck and left the room. As they exited, their presence was replaced by that of doctors in white lab coats in stark contrast to the soldier's dark military gear. They approached her with hypodermic needles. Spotting the instruments, Jill's heartbeat raced and she instinctively struggled against her restraints, but they showed no sign of giving under her force. The doctors neared and she whimpered involuntarily with fear. She was a lab rat now, stripped of all her dignity from her 33 years of life experience. Trapped in this chair, she wasn't Jill Valentine, the master of unlocking, survivor of the mansion Arklay Mansion incident, survivor of the Raccoon City zombie outbreak who narrowly survived a missile attack in her hometown. She was just piece of meat _sandwiched_ between the chair and the oncoming lab coat wearers, about to receive a cocktail of mysterious drugs. "Kenny, help me," she whispered, but he laid physically broken before her and barely conscious himself.

Jill felt a pinprick in the crook of her arm, and a few seconds later, another one in her shoulder. The needles were cold and soothing at first, but her body heat warmed them soon enough. The warmth turned into a burn, but just before the heat became unbearable, it faded and injection site felt fine. Just then, a third scientist came up to her with what looked like a palm-sized jewel in his hand. She slammed the device painfully to Jill's chest and almost immediately, she felt an agonizing sensation coming from along the edges of the object to where it met her chest. She screamed like holy hell but the clamps held her in place. Her body twisted and writhed in all sorts of inhuman angles while spittle spewed forth from her lips.

"Wesker, NO!" she thought she heard Kenny cried, and then the sharp slap of Wesker's glove to Kenny's face.

But Jill could no longer pay them any attention for it felt as if someone was cutting through her skin with a cookie cutter. A tingling began spreading towards her shoulders from her chest and down to her wrist, through her hand and into her fingertips. The tingling turned into shudders that Jill could not control. Her vision began clouding, her mouth became dry. Whatever they had injected her with was kicking in faster than she had anticipated. She began seeing things in her mind, feeling emotions and urges that she'd never felt before. It was as if her brain had taken on a mind of its own, telling her body to feel things she wasn't. Jill was slowly losing the ability to control her own limbs, her own muscles. She no longer recognized her own thoughts. Her vision swam before her eyes to the point where she could no longer recognize where she was, nor care.

Kenny watched Jill's transformation and the resulting waves of fear for her, and anger for Wesker kept him from losing consciousness from the beating he just received. Pain racked his back, chest and face but it was all numbed now with the shock of what was happening to Jill. With all the strength he could muster from his shoulders and arms, Kenny pushed his torso off the ground. Though Wesker stood where he was, his attention was also directed at Jill, admiring the handy work of the parasitic virus that had been injected into Jill, one that allowed him to assume direct control over her. Her deep blue eyes were now a much paler shade than they were naturally. Her pupils dilated, her face froze into an expressionless mask and her chestnut hair a part of a shade lighter than before. Wesker nodded his head and the doctors worked quickly to release the clamps that held her down into the chair. Once the straps were undone and the clamps released, she remained lying motionless in the chair with a blank face. Wesker reached in her general direction and beckoned for Jill to stand up. She obeyed without hesitation and as she rose, Kenny swore he saw a single tear roll down her cheek.

With a swipe of Wesker's hand, Jill got to work. She grasped the nearest doctor by the jaw and with a quick jerk of her wrist, she snapped his neck. The others panicked and tried to escape. The one closest to the door was Jill's next victim as she leapt onto his shoulders with surprising speed and with his head between her thighs, she twisted her pelvis and snapped his neck too. She jumped off the dying doctor, letting his body crumple to the ground and kicked the next doctor in the jaw as she landed, causing him to bite through his tongue. A spurt of blood produced from his mouth followed by a scream of any among the panicked cries. It had only taken six to eight seconds for Jill to annihilate the five scientists who now lay at her feet, dead. Kenny swallowed a dry lump in his throat and time slowed to a crawl as Jill turned to face him, glaring at him with those dead looking pale eyes. Kenny knew he was next, and he was in no shape to defend himself. Though Jill closed the distance between them with only a few steps, it had felt like a few hours by the time she seized him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. She reached around his head with her free arm and grasped his hairs there, pulling down so he was forced to look her in the eye.

"Jill …" he whispered through cracked, bloody lips. "Don't do this." At that moment something stirred in her gaze, and another layer of moisture coated her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Somewhere behind this cold, Wesker-controlled visage, Jill was still in there fighting for control. Whether or not she would win was still to be seen.

"This is what becomes of those who oppose me," Wesker said, reminding Kenny that he was still present. "Jill resisted and this is her reward. So what you did today was …"

"S…stupid," Kenny mumbled through teeth held clenched from Jill's grip on his lower face. His breath came in shallow gasps. He hated himself for the fear he displayed but it could not be helped. His emotions, his adrenaline, they were running rampant throughout his body. It was as if his muscles were frozen by the emotions.

"That's right," Wesker said quietly. "And I will give you one more chance to prove to me that you are more worthy to me alive than dead." Jill suddenly dropped Kenny without warning but he was able to catch himself and maintain his balance.

"Don't make me responsible for the death of another innocent," Kenny pleaded. "My position with the Ndipaya tribe … they're all going to die, aren't they? You're going to inject them all with the Type 2 Plagas."

"Your duty with the Ndipaya Tribe is over. You dropped the file folder containing your data when you foolishly rushed to Jill's aid. Good work, by the way." It was a taunt masked in a compliment. "We now have the data we need from the tribe. But I have another task for you." Kenny waited and as usual whenever he was feeling particularly theatrical, Wesker gave a brief dramatic pause. "You are going to aid in the destruction of the Biohazard Security Assessment Alliance. I am told Ada Wong has already briefed you on their possible appearance in Africa to investigate the black market rooted here. While they are in town, we will take advantage of their presence and give them the honor of being the first to fall to Uroboros."

"You will be waging war on the B.S.A.A., Wesker," Kenny warned.

"Word has reached me about a butcher who's set up shop in Kijuju," Wesker continued, ignoring Kenny. "The man tries to blend in, wears a turban to appear as if he comes from the local Muslim sects. But he stalks the village like a housecat asking questions about illegal activity in the region that he should know well not to ask if he was in fact local."

Kenny's first instinct was to panic, as he was sure Dorian fit this description, except for the butcher part. If Dorian was caught, Kenny's own involvement would be revealed and Wesker would surely have him killed then. He could not afford to get his cover blown for Wesker would likely not spare his life this time. Or perhaps he already knew? Kenny braced himself for whatever his boss had to say next, as he was sure he wasn't going to like it.

"The name of the man in question is Reynard Fisher," Wesker revealed, which was not what Kenny was expecting to hear. "It is clear that he's either working for, or in cahoots with the B.S.A.A., feeding them whatever information he manages to get a whiff of in Kijuju. Mr. Fisher is the worm we will use to lure in the B.S.A.A. You will use him to set them up for their own deaths."

"I think I'd know a thing or two about gathering information," Kenny said, "and if this Fisher is as good at his job as I am in mine, he will be able to see through our setup and spot our trap."

"Not if the information we give him is at least in part, true."

"And what is this information that Fisher gets going to be?"

Wesker reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of clear liquid, within which swam a single black tentacle about three inches long. Kenny mistook it for a leech but upon further observation, he noticed that it wriggled more like a snake, it's black form reflecting a dark orange light. He recognized it instantly as the product of "Uroboros", a codename for Wesker's new pet viral research project. "An illegal weapons transaction," Wesker said, the corners of his mouth turning upward slightly. "I've already got Irving in charge of the operation but I'm going to need someone to get Fisher to notice. I trust you abilities in planting information are just as good as gathering it?"

Kenny looked to Jill – why, he wasn't so sure. Maybe it was for the comfort of seeing a friendly face around these parts, even though now under Wesker's control, she was far likelier to kill him than talk to him. Maybe it was to reaffirm that he Jill he'd known this whole time was actually dead, for real this time. Upon seeing her blank, soulless face, Kenny's heart sank into his stomach. There was no longer any hope for them to escape this hellhole of a corporation, or escape the Wesker's influence. Even if Chris Redfield showed up now to break them out now – assuming Dorian had actually managed to convince the hard-headed man that Jill was still alive - there would be nobody to help. And Kenny wasn't about to let Chris waltz into Kijuju when there was an assault being planned in the form of a fake illegal weapons exchange. And then he began to panic. Which of his options would weigh less on his conscience; risking the life of his friend and the B.S.A.A. to come into Kijuju, get ambushed and killed or robbing Jill of any chance to escape Wesker's clutches, resigning her to her fate?

"Yes," Kenny replied absent-mindedly as he was considering his decision. This did not go by unnoticed as Wesker followed up with a menacing threat.

"If you fail in this," Wesker said, "it will be painfully obvious that your loyalty is faltering and trust me …" He clenched his gloved fist, producing the sound of leather crunching in on itself and his reptilian eyes glowed a dangerous shade of red beneath the dark glasses. "Not even the Shadow Technology or the Plagas queen in your body can save you."

The rhythmic tap of high heeled shoes filled the air, growing in volume as the woman who wore them neared, and then stopped outside of the automatic doors. A soft beep indicated that an access card had been swiped and the doors parted to reveal Excella Gionne, large gold earrings hanging from her lobes, dark brown hair pulled tightly into a gleaming bun. She held her arms modestly folded in front of her with a large piece of dark fabric hanging over them. She looked at Kenny with crystal eyes from beneath half closed eyelids with immaculately applied eye shadow and gave a half-sneer, who in return stuck his tongue out at her. Excella took her place beside Jill so that Jill was snugly in between her two new masters, the three of them facing Kenny. Excella held up the fabric and gravity claimed the lower half, unfolding it to reveal a hooded cloak.

"For the subject," Excella said with an Italian intonated accent. "She has been underground away from the outside world for too long. This should minimize sun damage." Jill spread her arms, and Excella moved to dress her in the cloak. She reminded Kenny of a mannequin while Excella was a tailor, dressing her in one of many pieces from her latest design collection. In fact from his point of view, it wouldn't look out of place if she held the tip of a measuring tape between her teeth. When she was done, Excella stepped back to view her subject. Wesker, on the other hand, spun on his heels in a fashion reminiscent of a Nazi soldier and headed for the door.

"Let the drugs take their toll on her," he ordered. "She begins active duty tomorrow. As for you, Kenny – I want you to find Reynard Fisher and … tell him what he needs to know. And clean yourself up." The doors closed, leaving Excella, Jill, and Kenny alone in the expansive space. She lifted an eyebrow at him, while he shrugged in response.

"I dunno, your clothes kinda make her look fat."

**XXXXX  
Penthouse Suite  
New York City, USA**

It was around 11:30 am that Chris Redfield awoke to a mouth and throat as dry as the Sahara. The sour taste of beer coated his entire mouth in the form of a dry, pasty film. He groaned, lifting himself from the couch with his gorilla-sized arms, feeling every ounce of their weight and painfully moved towards the kitchen sink for a drink of water. His head pounded with the severe headache of a hangover. Recounting the night, he hadn't drunk that much at all. Just a beer and a shot of that imported stuff DeChant brought over. And speaking of the devil, where in the world was he? His question was answered as Chris's toe met with his buddy's ribs, and he had to catch himself from falling in the least graceful fashion anyone could ever trip with. The sudden movement made his head pound that much harder. Chris winced and touched his fingers to the back of his head as a reflex, knowing full well that it wasn't going to do anything to make the pain subside.

DeChant moaned in pain, grimacing, holding his side where Chris accidentally kicked him, rousing him from his drunken slumber. "This huge apartment and you walk in the one spot I'm passed out in," he said, sitting up. He looked over to his left and saw another perfectly long couch that could have fit him for the night if he'd only taken a few steps further before slipping into an alcohol induced coma. Winter sunlight filtered through the venetian blinds from the balcony and into the living room, revealing bottles of beer, old pizza boxes and a television tuned into the morning news. DeChant picked himself up from the ground and lumbered over to the coat rack.

"Leaving so soon?" Chris asked, holding up a glass of water. "You look like you could use one of these before moving … or ten." With that, he downed the entire glass in a single gulp and turned on the tap again immediately after for a refill. DeChant nodded and grabbed the full glass from Chris, who consumed it in a similar manner.

"That was good. More, please," and Chris obliged. The two friends stood where they were from the kitchen and looked out towards the mess before them in the living room. Going by the look of confusion on their faces, neither of them remembered very well how all that garbage got there, as it wasn't there the night before.

"Did we do all that?" DeChant asked, pointing.

"Nobody else could've," Chris replied shrugging, after finishing his third glass of water in a row. He wet a hand a patted his hair down, the result of sleeping on side of his head for hours. "Come on." Chris grabbed his own dark coat from the rack, standing in stark contrast beside DeChant in his ski jacket. "This water isn't enough to cure a full blown hangover. We're gonna need some coffee and a hot, greasy breakfast. There's a great fifties diner within a block of here."

DeChant mulled over it for a moment, brows furrowed, eyes looking to the upper left, and he finally said, "Yeah, why not." He stepped through the front door held open for him by Chris. They entered a single dim corridor lined on both sides with potted palms, as Chris closed the door behind them, locking it securely before proceeding for the elevators at the other end of the corridor. Their outdoor boots thumped against pristinely polished marble tile as they walked and when they reached the elevator, as if on cue, the bell dinged and the double doors slid open revealing a large enclosed space lined on three sides by mirrors. Lacquered redwood paneling adorned the space beneath the mirrors that were so shiny, Chris could see his shoes in them. The elevator led the two men down to ground level, doors opening once again this time revealing a lobby mimicking that of a four star hotel.

A life of luxury was not something Chris Redfield got accustomed to very easily. It didn't suit his character. From helping to raise his little sister who was six years his junior, to living in a bachelor pad of an apartment in Raccoon City, he had always own very little and it was a good thing too, for he spent a lot of time training in the gym, practicing at the shooting range, or absorbed in paperwork. The mess he and DeChant left back at the apartment was the most "lived-in" he had ever seen his own suite. It wouldn't last however, as the cleaning staff would probably take care of the mess during their morning rounds by the time he got back. As a government funded organization, members of the B.S.A.A. were fairly well off and since Chris was one of the founding members eight years ago, he was credited that much more, monetarily speaking.

Chris and DeChant exited his apartment lobby and joined a stream of like-dressed people in dark coats. True, the sun shone brightly in the sky but it gave the illusion of warmth when the air itself was biting cold. The pedestrians huddled together, partly from the narrow sidewalk and partly for warmth, their breaths as thick as a plume of cigarette smoke. The promise of greasy, sizzling bacon, melt-in-your-mouth scrambled eggs, and skillet potatoes kept both men moving towards the diner. Rows of bright yellow taxis stood at a standstill on the roads, furiously honking at the one in front of them, who in turn was honking at another in front of them, and so on. Sidewalks on the other side of the road were just as packed with people in dark coats. Somewhere up ahead, Chris heard the distinct chatter of Asian tourists. Somewhere behind him, a tobacco store blared reggae music while a strange concoction of incense and cigar smoke spewed onto the streets from its doors. Traffic slowed to a standstill when the tourists up ahead stopped at a hot dog stand. After a few choice curse words from irritated locals, the human train began moving again. But Chris had been at a standstill long enough to browse a few covers from the magazine stands, while one in particular kept him rooted to the spot. None of the other pedestrians dared to purposely run themselves into a man of Chris's size and instead meandered around him like water flowing around a rock.

"What's the matter, buddy?" DeChant asked, noticing that Chris had not kept up with him.

"Take a look at this magazine, right here," Chris replied, picking it up. His actions earned him a stern scolding from the seller who was clearly not intimidated by him.

"Hey, hey, hey! No preview! You wanna read? You buy!" the seller said sternly with an Arabic accent. Chris dug into his pockets for a handful of dollar notes and gave them to the man, walking off with the magazine in hand. DeChant peaked over his broad shoulder at the cover which read in a bold sans-serif font, "B.S.A.A. funded by Tricell Inc.?" The claimed stunned both B.S.A.A. mercenaries, neither of them able to say anything for a brief moment as they tried to absorb what they were seeing. DeChant broke the silence.

"Why in the world would someone want to publish this?" he asked, appalled.

"You've gotta love the timing," Chris replied, his tone laced with rage. "Lately, rumors have been going on about illegal experiments with bioweapons being conducted in Africa. They're saying Tricell is behind them."

"So this article is indirectly bringing the B.S.A.A.'s legitimacy into question since we're being funded in part by Tricell. But this begs the question – how did this get to the media?" DeChant scratched his chin looking inquiringly at Chris. "It's not up to us who we accept funding from, as long as they believe in our cause. And in this case, it's not like Tricell doesn't – they're a drug manufacturer, they combat viral infections just like we do, albeit in a very different way. From a legal standpoint there is nothing questionable about accepting funding from an ally of sorts."

"That might be the case but it'll be something we have to prove in court," Chris replied, "assuming Tricell is found to be guilty of anything."

"That's a lot of ifs though," DeChant shook his head with disbelief. "I don't understand why anyone would want to attack the B.S.A.A. after all the work we've done."

"I get the feeling this isn't about the B.S.A.A. specifically" Chris admitted. He glared at the magazine cover again, and turned to the page indicated on the front. And sure enough, there was the author's name listed at the end of the article. "Dorian Marquez."

"You know this guy?" DeChant asked.

"Yeah, I do," Chris replied, crushing the magazine in one hand, to DeChant's surprise, "and I think it's about time I had a little chat with him."


	9. Chapter 8: The Weapons Deal

**Butcher Shop  
Kijuju Autonomous Zone, Africa**

It felt as if Kenny had walked into a murder scene, spotting splash patterns of fresh, bright red blood on the broken-tiled walls and floor. A small waterway was constructed in the perimeter of the butcher shop, designed to catch and flowing bodily fluids and feed them into one of the four drains at the corners of the room. Skinned carcasses of now unrecognizable beasts hung from vicious rusty hooks from the ceiling, obscuring his view of the butcher behind the counter. Likewise, the butcher took no notice of him either as he continued hacking away with a cleaver at the limb of some animal hidden behind the bulk of his body. Flies buzzed about the fresher carcasses and Kenny restrained himself from swatting at the bugs, instead focusing on keeping his behavior as close to that of the locals as he could. He couldn't afford Reynard Fisher believing he hadn't at least spent substantial amounts of time in Kijuju and was largely localized by now. The aroma of raw meat lingered in the air but was not suffocating. At least Kenny was able to keep his lunch down while he waited patiently at the counter for the butcher to notice him – until he realized that was not the attitude of a local who just outside, were beating a man to death in the middle of the street. Ten years ago, as a fifteen year old studying at the Raccoon City high school, he would have panicked and called the police, unable to do anything to help the victim. Now that he was older, stronger – although roughly the same size, he was capable of handling men with a foot and a hundred pounds on him. Yet he did nothing to aid the defenseless man who would no doubt be dead by the time he walked out of the butcher shop. Doing so would have interfered with his objective and blow his cover, something Wesker would definitely not have approved of.

"Uncle," Kenny called out when he realized the butcher was not going to turn around unless he made his presence known, "I want to buy a rack of lamb. Can you help me?" The butcher looked over his shoulder and turned to face his new customer with a smile. With a piece of cloth hanging around his neck, he wiped his forehead, condensed with sweat. He set the cleaver down and spread his hands in a welcoming gesture.

"Of course, my friend," he said. "I am Reynard Fisher, and I am honored to have you as my guest. Sorry, I get a bit too absorbed in my work sometimes."

"That is fine," Kenny replied and then joked, "I was busy admiring your selection, and now I am no longer sure of what I want for dinner tonight!" He reached over the collar of his shirt and pretended to scratch at something – a silent alarm alerting units that the target had been engaged. He picked a random piece of meat facing away from the window that he knew Jill's cloaked form would be revealed by, if only for a split second, and feigned interest in it. "This looks like it would fill my family's bellies, but the pork fat might be a little bit much."

"We do not sell pork here, my friend," the butcher laughed, clapping Kenny on the shoulder. "The Islamic population in these parts would not patronize my shop if they knew of a possibility of cross-contamination of non-Halal products existed. I am afraid we only have cow, lamb, alligator, goat and deer. What you are looking at is alligator." Kenny swore he felt his stomach do a somersault.

"Yes," he replied, "please have it prepared for me."

Kenny continued to engage the butcher while Jill set up the hidden audio feed all around the butcher shop. Sweat was steadily condensing on his brow, some from the dry heat but mostly from nervousness. He did not feel safe here surrounding by animal corpses hanging on hooks, and from what he could see behind the counter, a large assortment of knives and cleaves, and some blades with ugly hooked forms that he did not recognize. He anxiously waited for his cell phone to ring – a pre-established sign that Jill was done setting up and they could go. But in his anticipation, Kenny completely forgot his part of the mission – To plant the information that Reynard Fisher would need to bring in the B.S.A.A.

"There are some men outside," Kenny began, "beating up on another poor soul, stuffed in a sack."

Fisher shrugged. "That's the way it is around here these days, ever since people began acting strangely. The foreign workers down at the oil drill are especially nervous, those Americans. Not used to violence like this, I suppose. Although, you don't seem as tense as the others."

"I'm a researcher with Tricell Inc.," Kenny replied. "This isn't my first time in a developing nation. Number one rule is if you do not get involved, you will not get hurt. Our religions, politics and entertainment media constantly preach that right and wrong is absolute and no limited to within the borders of any given country."

Reynard Fisher, the butcher, frowned and nodded his head in approval at Kenny's words, saying, "Most Westerners who have visited this region do not harbor your kind of attitude. They have so far mostly been religious missionaries."

"I am not a religious missionary," Kenny maintained, "Right and wrong depends on where you stand. Help that poor soul out there, and I may be doing right by myself, but in a society whose culture that is completely alien to me, it might be perceived as wrong to them."

Kenny's cell phone, with its mode set to vibrate, shook in Kenny's breast pocket. A subtle wave to Fisher and a pointed finger to the device indicated an "important" phone call. Reynard smiled and got to work, cleaving the alligator meat into consumable portions. Kenny picked up the call, but did not speak. It was Jill's voice on the other end – the same voice, but not the same tone. It was lifeless, detached and cold, bordering on robotic. "Receivers are up and running. You know what to do." Without waiting for Kenny to acknowledge, she cut communications and all he could hear was the dial tone. He swallowed a nervous dry lump in his throat.

Though he'd never considered himself as an actor, Kenny thought he did a pretty good job with the rehearsed scene he played out next. He dropped the cell phone onto the tiled floor, shattering the device into pieces and destroying a potential clue should authorities get a whiff of their plans. He froze with his mouth agape, feigning shock. He weakened his knees a little and forced himself act as he would if he felt woozy.

The butcher seemed to be legitimately concerned for his health as he chopped the cleaver into the cutting board and ran to Kenny's aid. "Sir, are you alright?"

"Yes …, yes," Kenny stuttered, taking a brief moment to compose himself. "That was my girlfriend on the phone," he explained, "She's visiting me from America. She was returning from the market, taking a shortcut through one of the alleyways back to my lodgings. She said they were discussing firearms when they spotted her."

Fisher relaxed slightly upon hearing this and reassured him, "These kinds of things, illegal as they are, occur frequently. These laws are not strictly enforced, given the instability of this region. I'm sure she has little to worry about, when it comes to her personal safety. These men were likely not talking about murder, but self defense given the hostility in these parts, as you have seen for yourself."

"I appreciate your understanding, sir," Kenny replied, "but I'm afraid I still have reason to be concerned. She recognized one of the men as an employee of Tricell, a scientist, supposedly. We are a science and research corporation and should have no need for weapons of any sort. We rely on local security forces to provide protection for any of our more sensitive work." He could have sworn he saw a glint in the butcher's eye as he said this. But before he could have registered what it meant, it disappeared as quickly as it had come. That was the only indication Kenny needed to know that Fisher had gotten a whiff of the bait in his trap.

"You are saying there are arms dealers conducting business transactions with members of your company?" he asked. "But that cannot be. Now that I recall, I have served many Tricell employees in my shop and all have told me that they do not have the permit to purchase firearms. Your girlfriend might have witnessed an illegal transaction, sir."

"I could have her report it to the authorities," Kenny offered but was met with immediate refusal.

"No need, good sir," Fisher replied. "I have a friend with the local authorities. I'll alert him to the matter but it would be unwise to get involved any further than that, especially if it's based on a hunch. But I would not worry about you girlfriend's safety, sir. Generally, as far as local politics go, if you do not get involved, you will be left well alone. You are a foreigner and therefore not involved. I would suggest that you keep it that way."

"Thank you for the advice, Uncle." Kenny fought to suppress the guilt rising from his chest. The false information about a weapons deal had been planted, and this is where it would all begin.

**XXXXX**

**Underground Laboratory  
Kijuju Autonomous Zone, Africa**

Kenny stormed into one of the laboratory's many mess halls, where researches and facility security alike could unwind from the day's hard work and gossip. These large metallic rooms were adorned with hotel-style decorations and furniture, a failed attempt in his opinion, to give the sterile establishment any atmosphere of comfort and homeliness. Kenny did not frequent the mess halls – he made it a point to stay away from them in the scenario that they would give him any sense of comfort, of belonging, and that was the last thing he needed if he was going to keep the hope of escaping Wesker's grasp alive. But the reason he came here today was a simple one. Irving was here, and it was likely as he had never struck Kenny as the kind of man to be dedicated to his work. And sure enough, as predicted, there he was standing at the counter preparing himself a beverage which Kenny suspected of being of the alcoholic persuasion. Irving was too involved in his drink to acknowledge his presence but Kenny spoke up anyway.

"The information's been planted," he said. "Reynard Fisher now knows that an illegal weapons transaction is going to take place."

"What details did you give him?" Irving asked without looking up.

"Details?" Kenny asked, and sarcastically added, "Yes, Irving. Just in the town square in approximately a week from now, and I also told him to bring a gun in case there might be any physical altercations in the scenario that the entire fiasco is just a plot to destroy the B.S.A.A."

"And with tact, too," Irving replied dismissively, taking a sip of his drink.

"Any more details and he would have been suspicious," Kenny said. "Do you have everything planned?"

"The details are completely fictitious but yes, they are," Irving confirmed. "They're in a data-pad I've planted in one of the Kijuju safe houses that the B.S.A.A. are sure to investigate when they come over. That is of course, if you've accomplished your leg of the mission successfully."

"I just told you I did."

Irving looked at Kenny suspiciously but seemed to accept his claim as the truth. "In that case, everything is green lit. Be sure to report to Wesker and Miss Gionne."

"Irving …" Kenny began, but faltered. He wasn't sure if he would be able to get an honest answer out of his co-worker.

Picking up on the tone of concern in Kenny's voice, Irving uncharacteristically responded. "What is it? What's bothering you?" Irving was one of those employees that Kenny was sure of harbored no loyalty toward Tricell, which drove him to the conclusion that Irving was some kind of personal stake in his concerns.

"What do you think Tricell plans on doing with the B.S.A.A. members that come here to investigate our false information?" Kenny already knew the answer to his question but there was something about hearing it from someone else that he needed at the moment.

Irving smirked. "You must've heard from Miss Gionne by now that the Uroboros prototype is ready for field testing. Of course we had originally intended for Jill Valentine to be our honored first test subject but since discovering her resistance to the T-Virus, she has proven to be of more worth to us than that. So certain adjustments had to be made to the plan. Of course, confrontation with the B.S.A.A. was expected regardless, so why not kill two birds with one stone? Besides, the information we would extract from experimentation against live soldiers would be far more useful to us than a defenseless woman strapped to a chair."

Kenny could feel himself getting physically sick with guilt. His initial plan was to lure Chris Redfield into Kijuju with the promise of reclaiming Jill Valentine and another opportunity to destroy Albert Wesker and thus, freeing Kenny from a lifetime of servitude to the man he hated more than life itself. What he didn't expect, however, was that Wesker had similar ideas in mind, to lure Chris here and set up a trap to kill him and his organization. If Wesker's plan was successful, Kenny would have played right into it. He held a hand to his gut to stifle an enraged howl of frustration that threatened to burst forth from his very core. Irving seemed to have had picked up on the negative energy emanating from Kenny and held on to that smirk that Kenny wanted to wipe off his face. Instead of physically striking Irving, Kenny continued his façade of allegiance and said, "Sounds like all is going according to plan, then. I'll report to Wesker and Excella presently." Without wasting a second, Kenny spun on his heels and proceeded to the exit of the mess hall.

However, the moment the automatic doors had closed, Kenny sprinted as fast as his tired legs would carry him towards his quarters. A full day of trekking through Kijuju's uneven terrain in the hot, dry African heat had exhausted him, but he found that the confirmation of his worst fears was a new source of energy from which he propelled himself. Kenny stumbled into his quarters less than three minutes and two flights of stairs later, and rushed to activate his laptop. As soon as the computer had activated, he opened up a private conversation window to Dorian Marquez in New York City.

_Talk to me NOW, _Kenny type furiously. But there was no response from the other end. _Damn it, Dorian this is important! _He followed up, but there was still no response. He began to hyperventilate from fear, from stress. _Dorian, PLEASE answer me!_ Still nothing.

**XXXXX**

**Hotel Room  
New York City**

Setting the newspaper down onto the bedside table beside a full mug of coffee, Dorian stepped back and admired his handiwork. It was front page news on at least one local paper, and the first big break he'd got since he started his journalism endeavors. It was a humble start – Dorian didn't exactly have the money to pay for any special schooling. His father didn't have the funds to support his own dreams either, being a drifter himself. But what he lacked in money, he more than made up for in charm. His uncanny ability to bullshit was developed and cultured from a childhood of survival on the streets, and watching his back for people he'd pissed off with his angel-faced lies. But now, all that was behind him and the only direction he looked was ahead. He was no longer sneaking around and bending the truth to live to see the next day; he was doing it to empty skeletons out of closets – and not because of any of that "the people have a right to know" bullshit, but because he needed to feed himself and this was the only way he knew how, to bend the truth about other people.

In regards to the newspaper article sitting in front of him however, this did not require his talents. He simply wrote the facts – the total number of times in which he'd exercised this could be counted on a single hand. The link between the B.S.A.A. and Tricell Inc. was suspicious enough by its own merit especially given the recent rumors about Tricell's illegal activities in Africa. The information Kenny passed onto Dorian – or more specifically, his composure by which he did – seemed to add to the mystery. Something was going on down there and Kenny was afraid to get into the details. Dorian guessed that by even talking about it, Kenny was putting himself at some risk, and he wouldn't have done it if something bad wasn't happening. The only thing Dorian wondered about was what it could have been.

It didn't matter at that moment, Dorian decided, reaching into his breast pocket, pulling out a half empty pack of cigarettes. He lit it and headed for the balcony, picking up his mug of black coffee along the way and took a sip. It was bitter but Dorian had long since gotten used to it, even developed a taste for it. And it was the caffeinated beverage and the smooth velvety first hand smoke that he inhaled that he celebrated his small victory upon. The article had been written and published. Word was getting out there that the B.S.A.A. had some kind of professional relationship with Tricell Inc. Innocent enough, Dorian was sure, but it was only a matter of time before Tricell's illegal activities in Africa would come to light, if his trust in Kenny's word was anything to go by. And once that happened, had it been any other organization partnered with Tricell, no doubt that would have forced them to sever any political ties with them. But the B.S.A.A. – as a matter of global security, it was their JOB to know these things before it became mainstream news. If they were any good at their job, and their reputation spoke volumes of that fact, then they would have known about Tricell's activities long before Kenny was able to tell Dorian about it. Knowing this, a pang of rage filled Dorian's psyche, but only for a moment. The B.S.A.A. must already be aware of Tricell's operations and were yet still accepting them as investors. Now that this was public information, Dorian had little doubt that Chris Redfield would soon be seeking him out to clear the air as one of the B.S.A.A's original founders. It was a meeting that he looked forward to.

What Dorian hadn't expected was that the meeting would occur so soon. It had only been a few seconds after Dorian had stepped out of the shower later that day when he heard the blip from his computer signaling an incoming instant message, and a heavy rapping at the door to his suite. Dressed in only a white towel wrapped around his waist, Dorian hurried to the bedroom to throw on some clothes, barely bothering to dry himself. The computer blipped again, followed by an even more furious knock on the door. "Hold the fuck on," he muttered under his breath. His hands scrambled over the pile of clothes that lay on the bed, trying to separate the clean garments from the dirty ones. But then it struck him that there was no way he would want to impress anyone with the indecency of rudely interrupting him just after getting out of the shower and threw on the next shirt his hand made contact with.

Scrambling into the first shirt he found – which happened to be an uncharacteristic shade of pink, as luck would have it, Dorian raced for the door, ignoring the material clinging to his skin from the moisture from the shower. "I'm coming!" he repeated, just as he reached for the knob. Dorian pulled open the door, half eager to see the face of one who so impatiently demanded that he heed their need for attention by rapping against his door so violently. Upon swinging open the door, instead of seeing a face, Dorian only saw a muscular chest, filling his gut with a sudden dread. He was about to get his ass kicked. His gaze trailed upwards at roughly a 45 degree angle to see the angry, scowled face of Chris Redfield glaring down at him.

"You?" Dorian said instinctively but Chris responded with a violent shove to the young man's chest, nearly throwing him off balance. As Dorian struggled to regain his footing, he spotted Chris's massive fist swinging towards his face. Dorian dropped into a backward shoulder roll to gain some distance between him and the monster he faced. Instead of throwing another punch, Chris raised another fist. And in it, Dorian could see a rolled up newspaper. Chris unrolled the parchment with both hands and displayed the front page news.

"Explain this to me," he hissed angrily. "Explain why you felt the need to publish this. The quotes in this article are taken directly from the conversation you and I had at the bar regarding Tricell – a conversation I did not want to have in the first place! These are words I have no official opinion on!"

"And yet, you said them," Dorian replied, "As a direct employee of the B.S.A.A., no less, even after I showed you documented proof that Tricell is directly investing your organization and that you are accepting it without hesitation!"

"I made it pretty damn clear to you that I had no idea any of this is going on."

"The article never claimed you did," Dorian retorted. "Whatever conclusion the readers come to is beyond my ability …" He punctuated his claim with a clever smirk.

"You little snake!" Chris lunged out, attempting to grab Dorian by the throat but the youth expertly dodged his arm, retaliating with a swift kick to his wrist. Chris's body twisted from the momentum of the blow and used it to his advantage, channeling it into a shoulder thrust which connected straight into the youth's solar plexus. Dorian was by no means a small man, but could be considered so beside Chris. He took the force, which sent him hurtling through the air in a perfect arch and onto the plush carpet just a few feet away. He rolled to his feet, grabbing at his chest wheezing his next words.

"I told you, Redfield," he said with a raspy voice, "Tricell is up to something in Africa. It will only be a matter of time before the public finds out about the kinds of experiments they are conducting. You might want your organization to sever any ties with them before they are found out. I tried to warn you but Kenny advised me that you'd be this stubborn. So I had to do what I did to convince you."

"So it's true then," Chris said, making no effort to hide the rage in his voice, "Kenny does have a hand in what's going on."

"Not in the way you might think. Kenny is seeing everything unfolding before his eyes and he's desperately trying to bring it to your attention. But working directly underneath the heads of Tricell Inc. is making that task quite a challenge for him. Kenny is serving you your next major victory in the war against biochemical terror on a silver platter but you're not taking that victory because the corporation in question is the hand that feeds the B.S.A.A."

"It's not that simple," Chris insisted. "The information Kenny used to pull me in, this whole claim about Jill being alive, how do I know it's not a trap?"

"If it was a trap, it would have to be someone with a pretty bad grudge who you would know personally. The only person who could hold a grudge this bad is Wesker, but … isn't he dead?" Dorian shot an eat-shit smirk at Chris, who had nothing to reply with instead choosing to remain speechless, so he continued. "The very fact that you suspect someone could be using Kenny to lure you in specifically, and not any other B.S.A.A. member suggests that you believe Wesker is alive. What I'd like to know is why you believe so, and yet believe Jill to be dead when they supposedly fell out of a window together."

"Wesker has abilities beyond any mortal human and Jill …"

"Or maybe you just don't want to bite the hand that feeds you," Dorian accused. He spoke with frustration now. Chris was being stubborn and he was going to force him to go along with the plan whether Chris was party to it or not. "Maybe you don't want to hurt the corporation that's funding your organization. Well it's too late now, Redfield. The article has been published. Now it's all public information. So you either sit idle, do nothing about it and let Kenny's information go unnoticed until the public realizes that the B.S.A.A. is letting this happen, or you can actually do your job!"

Chris snorted, "Typical of you media freaks. 'Do your jobs'? That's so easy for you to say isn't it? When you don't even have the first fucking clue of …" He was cut off by the ringing of his cell phone, which Chris plucked from his pant pocket, glaring angrily at Dorian as he did. "Redfield," he grunted into the phone.

In case Chris decided to come back at him angrier than before, Dorian subtly reached around behind him and grabbed a flower vase, thin enough for him to hold in one hand. He held it, ready to swing at a moment's notice. But instead, Chris continued listening to whoever else was on the other line, making no other sounds other than grunts of comprehension. After a few tense moments, Chris said, "We'll get a team together by morning," and snapped the phone shut.

He regarded Dorian's presence again and sighed, almost apologetically. He looked at his toes, taking a few moments to find the right words to say. But the expression on his face told Dorian everything he needed to know; whoever he spoke to on the phone had just given him information that had finally gotten through that iron skull of his.

"Something's going on in Africa," Chris admitted, "some kind of black market weapons sale," and he gave Dorian a moment to gloat.

"Then what are you waiting for?" Dorian asked. "Get out there and help Kenny!"

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly in a grateful smile and nodded his head at Dorian in acknowledgement. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. "The hotel's probably gonna charge you for the damage in here. Put it on my tab." As soon as Dorian had taken the card from between his fingers, Chris headed for the door and closed it behind him without a word of goodbye.


End file.
